It's Not Easy
by willywonka3435
Summary: Wilson suffers some hardship at the hands of his wife and goes on, with the help of House, to realize that he can still find happiness. No slash. Please read and review. It's better than it sounds, I promise!
1. Prologue

Title: It's Not Easy

Characters: House, Wilson, Cameron, Chase, Cuddy, Julie (could be others too)

Disclaimer: Don't own

Rating: T

Warning: See below.

**A/N: **Please be warned that this piece of work is not for everyone. It discusses the abuse of a husband by his wife. Under no circumstances did I write this piece to mock such a horrific situation; if anything, I tried to write it in order to call attention to the fact that men _can_ be hurt by their wives, just as the other way around.

Please give me your input, though I would greatly appreciate it if I were not flamed.

**It's Not Easy**

_**Prologue**_

It was Monday morning, and James Wilson, M.D. was running late.

To Wilson's credit, however, he was not entirely responsible for this tardiness. Perhaps the greatest blame for the shameful slip-up should have been placed on his wife, Julie. You see, the night before Wilson had come home ten minutes after five—dinner time—and she was seething.

Wilson pushed gingerly at the door to Princeton-Plainsboro, wincing with the onrush of another brief flash of pain and wondering where House had gotten to—his motorcycle had not been in its normal space when he pulled up, and Wilson hadn't seen him on his way into the hospital either. At the moment, though, Wilson wasn't sure he _wanted_ to run into House, or, for that matter, anyone else. His shoulder throbbed where he had hastily bound it upon waking, and he felt fairly certain there was a new bruise forming on his hip—he brushed against the briefcase of a patient, let the door swing gently shut on his heels, and amended his previous remark; he was _absolutely_ certain there was a new bruise forming on his hip.

In his mind, Wilson began to list the things he had to do that morning. This was a tactic he had adopted recently, and one he employed on a daily, sometimes twice-daily basis. Reviewing his plans in an organized, calm manner diverted his thoughts; it allowed him, briefly, to focus on something else and even to temporarily forget the events of the past hours entirely. But as he walked forward, his own briefcase swinging from his left hand and his right shoulder uncomfortably stiff from its hasty medical treatment, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach at the unpleasant realization that the hazy haven of memory loss was not on the agenda _that_ morning.

Waiting by the clinic, glaring at him rather menacingly, hands folded before her chest, stood Cuddy.

"Good morning, Lisa," said Wilson. He attempted to slip quietly past and make for the elevator. Unfortunately, he was not as quick as he would have liked. Out of practice, he assumed; House could have made it in ten seconds flat, and _he_ was missing a significant amount of thigh muscle. Wilson thought that was just another part of a base difference between the two of them; while House held no qualms at all about running away from a potentially unpleasant situation—funny, him being a man who couldn't run at all—Wilson had stopped running years ago. And he'd paid for it ever since.

Cuddy did not make a move to uncross her arms; in fact, if such was even possible, her grip tightened. "Dr. Wilson," she said, standing motionless and (handily enough) in his way, "you are three hours late."

Wilson knew for a fact that, regularly, he was never more than five minutes late, and rarely even that small amount. Lately, however, he had begun coming in later and later. Thus far, three hours was his record. He supposed he should have expected Cuddy would say something to him; they were, after all, friends—of a sort. The problem was that they were also boss and employee, he was extremely late, and she had just caught him. He paused a safe distance away and gave her a shy smile.

"I'm sorry," he said, and thought rapidly for a plausible excuse, "but I was getting a ride with House, and—well, you know how he is about being _anywhere_ on time." There, he thought, that should do it.

"No dice."

Wilson blinked. "What do you mean?"

"No dice," Cuddy repeated, with a quick, mournful shake of her head, "I'm afraid that's not going to wash, Wilson. You see—although, for all I know, this may well be a sign of the Apocalypse—House arrived at eight. He's been here for two-and-a-half hours."

At this, Wilson shook his own head and momentarily closed his eyes. Whenever he _needed_ the man to be late—well, wasn't that Murphy's Law for you? The only thing he could think was—busted. Busted busted busted. This was it. He tried weakly to flex his right shoulder, testing his mobility, hoping to ward off the panic he knew was inevitable, but his efforts were to no avail. His own bandaging job proved too much of a constraint. _Busted_, his mind reminded him again, and he felt the blood rush from his head. His vision shimmered and grew fuzzy. His legs began to tremble. He took a deep breath—

And collapsed in a dead faint.

Wilson's briefcase hit the ground as he did. Its clasp broke with a snap and it gleefully abandoned its mountainous contents in a snow-like flurry of creamy paper and black ink. The clinic patients sitting nearby turned their heads curiously to see what was going on—a doctor's illness was a nice distraction. Meanwhile, one of Wilson's forms drifted peacefully up to the air vent, where it slid through the grate and disappeared.

Cuddy shook her head again and paged House.


	2. I

**A/N: **I don't know if I have technical information correct in this bit. If not, please don't hesitate to tell me. I'd really appreciate it.

**I.**

**W**hen Wilson next opened his eyes, he had a Foley.

While the Foley was certainly not his most _important_ concern, it was, at the time, the most pressing. Beside the fact that he hated the things—the immodesty which came with them (_somebody_ had to set it up, didn't they?), the fact that they were a bit more uncomfortable than he usually found tolerable, and the way they effectively restrained his mobility—a Foley could have meant only one thing, and that one thing was the one thing he definitely did _not_ want.

A Foley meant that he, James Wilson, was in hospital.

Given, the admission sounded a bit foolish coming from an oncologist, but Wilson had not been in hospital for ten years, since he broke his leg in two places skiing with some college buddies, and he did not intend to start the practice again soon. It was not so much a phobia as it was an incredibly severe dislike. Wilson considered himself a fairly private person—well, except when he was drunk, but House was the only one around _then_—and if there was one thing besides good food that you could not have in hospital, it was _privacy_.

And on top of that, Julie would _kill_ him.

At this, Wilson shifted his eyelids from half-shut position to panic mode and began making a very credible effort to sit up. He got his head about three inches off the pillow (what were those things stuffed with, _rocks?_) when he realized something both rather alarming and very important.

He, James Wilson, was not only in hospital—he was _tied to the bed_.

Wilson twisted his hands quietly back and forth for a moment, trying to test his restraints. Sure enough, his wrists were bound by thick leather straps to the bed rails, and he could do little more than flex his fingers. The rough edges of his bindings chafed against the wrist he'd recently sprained; he sighed and, in annoyance, stopped resisting. In hospital _and_ restrained. He began to feel sympathetic for the patients who actually _required_ restraints; in truth, he'd experienced few things more degrading. It was when he waggled his feet back and forth beneath the blanket and found his ankles were bound as well that the reality of the situation began to sink in. He could not get up, and he had no idea _why_. If this was the current punishment for being late, a Foley and a set of restraints, why wasn't House suffering too? He shut his eyes and was about to indulge himself in pretending to be somewhere else, far away from wives and Foleys and bindings and House, when he heard a voice.

"Dr. Wilson?" it said. "Are you all right?"

Wilson, of course, knew right away who it was—one of House's fellows, in particular one by the name of Allison Cameron. He sighed to himself and, with more than a little reluctance, pried open his eyes once more. She was standing by the door smiling at him. He could tell by the look on her face that the façade was rather flimsy, and he wondered what bad news she had found out and whether it had anything to do with why he was bound to the bed.

"I'm fine," he said, though he felt far from it. His wrist ached, he couldn't move, he felt sure he was bleeding through the bandage on his shoulder, and the bruise he'd noticed earlier was throbbing away in full glory. In addition, he was currently wearing a hospital gown, and Allison Cameron was… staring at him. Did he miss something?

"You gave Cuddy a real scare."

"What happened?" Wilson asked.

Cameron smiled weakly and made a few hand gestures in an effort to decide exactly what she should say to that. Wilson essentially filled in the blanks for himself—something bad had happened and she didn't want to tell him about it. He tried to mentally retrace that morning's activities; he remembered arriving, missing House's bike, running into Cuddy, coming up with a lie which should _not_ have come true but somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, did _anyway_… and then nothing until the Foley. He was fairly sure that, provided he were motivated to, he would be able to remember _earlier_ events, but he worked so hard for blissful ignorance most of the time that he didn't mind indulging in it when he actually had a proper excuse. He sighed—he was supposed to have seen a patient that morning, but the whole three-hours-late deal pretty much screwed _that_ up.

Cameron was still grinning at him.

Wilson liked Cameron—he wasn't interested in dating her (he was not quite as much a player as House or the hospital rumor mill made him out to be), but he felt a strange kinship with her, and she was oddly fascinated by him. She was, by no means, the only one who found his friendship with House _odd_, but she was one of the few who found it intriguing. And as if that weren't enough, Wilson personally believed Cameron preferred to like everyone anyway. He did not have a close friendship with her but a sort of acquaintanceship; it was true that House was his only real friend (after all, that was all he had—a job and a stupid, screwed-up friendship), but if he were to have a second, he thought she'd be a pretty good candidate.

At the moment, helpless and bound to his own bed like a patient in the psych ward, he remembered telling Cameron "You'd be surprised what you can live with," and he felt the truth of his statement finally hit home. He _was_ surprised by what he could live with—and he guessed she was, too. Everyone had their secrets, right? Everyone lied.

"Did I faint?"

Cameron nodded. Wilson suspected she was pleased by the relatively mild question. "Collapsed right in the clinic," she said. "The janitors will be digging your papers out of the air vents for weeks."

"My papers?"

"Your briefcase broke," Cameron said. "The fall was probably too much for it."

Wilson knew Cameron would really have appreciated more avoidance, but, for his sake, he had to get back to the topic at hand. "Why am I in bed?" he asked, "if I only fainted?"

"It was, uh," Cameron began, "a bit more than that. You see—"

Luckily for her, she was cut off just then by a direct, rather imposing thudding noise on the door to the room. It was a loud noise, so Wilson instinctively flinched a bit. He knew what was making this particular loud noise, however, and so did Cameron. She stood back a foot or two and the door swung open.

"I haven't taught you well, have I?" said House. The expression on his face, if what was there could have been called one at all, was utterly unreadable. Wilson was completely caught off guard. He blinked.

"Huh?"

House turned to Cameron and leered at her in a particularly suggestive fashion. She sighed, sent another cheery smile in Wilson's direction, and took the hint.

"Bye, Cameron," he said, wondering if a sort of lopsided four-fingered wiggle counted as a proper wave and doubting it but trying anyway. Once the door was shut, House turned back to him and maintained a blank stare which went on until something caught up with Wilson, exhaustion, embarrassment, injury, who knew, and he closed his eyes.

Big mistake.

"Fainting's a real girly thing to do, you know," came a voice about four inches away from his nose. "I thought I taught you better than that. Did you at least get a chance to look up her skirt? Otherwise, you lose, dude."

Wilson's eyes sprang open about halfway through the first sentence; he let out a frightened squeak and reflexively strained a bit against the restraints, but the pressure on his wrist was too much. House's eyes narrowed rather dangerously. Wilson did not really consider that a good sign. "Sorry," he said, "cheated on the test and all that. Learned _that_ from the best though. And as for the skirt, I'm—" he stumbled over the word "—married."

"You know," House groaned, "I _never_ thought I'd even _think_ this, but—"

"Oh, please, House, this isn't the best place to _propose_—"

"We might actually have to—"

"Wait for Aspen, much more romantic that way—"

"_Talk_," House finished, then sucked in a very large, very exaggerated gulp of air as if the word had simply been too much to get out. "Damn it, I need a drink."

"Look," Wilson said, forcing himself to be serious, "while I'm tied to a hospital bed probably isn't the best time for _anything_—"

"Oh, I can think of _something_—" said House, leering at _Wilson_ in a particularly suggestive fashion, which Wilson found highly disturbing but chose to ignore in favor of more important discussion.

"Let alone _talking_," Wilson spat. "Since when are you Mr. Rogers anyway? And why, damn it, am I chained to the damn _bed_?"

Wilson didn't think he'd ever seen House drop his gaze before, but he did. There was, surprisingly enough, silence for a moment. Then, "Apparently, Wilson, you're suicidal."

If Wilson hadn't known the message was serious simply by its contents, he understood the weight it carried by the fact that House used his _name_. House hadn't called him anything other than "you" in years. But the "suicidal" part was enough for him. He shut his eyes again and wondered how he'd ever get out of that one. On second thought, he wondered why they believed he was suicidal in the first place. The Boy Wonder oncologist with a less-than-perfect life? It was enough to send half the nurses into shock.

In the air vents above Wilson's head, the form which had been the first to fly up there continued silently on its journey.


	3. II

**II.**

"**D**NA is a really cool thing," said House. "Did you know that? I bet you did, Wilsie."

Wilson's eyes were shut again. He was still chained unmercifully to the bed. By the sound and direction of House's voice, Wilson guessed he was sitting sprawled on one of the visitor's chairs. By the sound of the television he hadn't known he had, Wilson guessed General Hospital was on. Wilson had never been very good at ignoring people, and the current time was no exception, even though House had intentionally become more and more annoying by the minute in the name department and Wilson was fairly certain that if any nurses walked by they would decide he was gay.

"I don't see where you're going with this," Wilson said. He was still tired and so he kept his eyes shut. Keeping his eyes shut also made it easier to ignore House.

"DNA," House repeated. "Learned about it in med school, didn't you, Jimmy-poo? Nah," he interrupted himself, "don't like _that_ one. Anyway, I'm pretty sure we all did. Amazing stuff, that. Just need a little bit and those _cool_ dudes in the blue uniforms can figure out about anything. Like, oh, I don't know, who to arrest. A strand of hair's good enough. Think you shower _that_ well, Wilsie?"

"You watch too much Cops," Wilson muttered, "and I still don't see where you're going with this."

"I don't believe you're suicidal," House said.

This was interesting. Perhaps he had an ally after all. Wilson cracked open one eye. General Hospital _was_ on. He ignored it. "You still haven't told me why _they_ think I'm suicidal," he said, "and why haven't you left yet? I think it's lunchtime. Don't you have some food to steal?"

"Why would I steal some, Wilsie, when I have _your_ lunch?" House said. "It's so much more fun this way. And better-quality stuff too."

"Look," said Wilson again, for the second time that afternoon, "my name's Wilson, not Wilsie, and I want to know why everyone in the hospital seems to think I'm determined to off myself. Can't you be serious for five seconds and at least explain _that_?"

House paused and eyed the television. He was quiet for a minute—for House, being serious always took considerable exertion—then he said, still without returning his gaze to Wilson, "Looked at yourself lately?"

Wilson blinked. "Huh?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you?" House yelled angrily, twisting back around in his chair. "You idiot, you look like hell, you've been sleeping in your office all week, you've got about ten damn _scars_, and you _fainted_ in the damn _clinic_. What do you _think_ people are gonna believe? That you spend your weekends on the good ship Lollipop?"

It was too much for Wilson. He hated himself, oh, he hated himself for being such a wimp, but it was too much at once. Too much after what had happened that morning—which, he hastily reminded himself, he wasn't going to think about. He began, involuntarily, to shake. His bindings jerked back and forth in a pitiful, bizarre rhythm as he trembled. House, not being an idiot, was fully aware of what was happening; he sighed and got to his feet. For a hesitant moment he made as if he might undo the bindings, but Wilson could not help flinching as he approached, and House shook his head and left the room without glancing back. Wilson, afraid, helpless, frustrated, and unbearably angry—at House, at himself, at the hospital staff, at the leather imprisoning him, at the Foley, at the ridiculous gown, at Julie, at the world—lay still and began, silently, to sob. He cried to himself until he once more was able to recover his composure, and when he had he cried again, because—thanks to his wife—he could no longer wipe away his own tears.

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**C**uddy was not terribly surprised by the fact that House was waiting outside her office when she returned. It was really starting to become a regular occurrence, and, though her secretary found him rather disturbing and harbored a secret fear that he was the Unabomber, she discovered that she didn't mind. Even though it meant she had to put up with him, she enjoyed having the company. She was not young any more, she never had liked being alone, and her office tended to get awfully quiet when there was not a scruffy, hulking, six-foot-tall doctor-cum-teenager leaning on his cane and griping in the middle of it.

Today he was waiting in the hallway outside, and he looked more angry than usual. Her secretary's desk was notably empty. _That_ was no surprise.

"I can't believe what you're doing!" House said, as soon as he spotted her approaching.

"What do you mean?" she asked, stepping rather nimbly around him and unlocking her door. This, too, was becoming routine; he would follow her in and explain, as irrationally as possible, his latest complaint—probably about his latest patient, she thought, and something I'm not doing, or not doing to his liking, or, most likely, not letting _him_ do—she would explain, much more rationally, why things were the way they were, and he would sneer, make some biting remark about her clothing, and storm out, usually already coming up with a way to get around her. Aside from her secretary's recent increase in therapy bills, the situation worked. Patients generally lived and she hadn't been sued—not in the past month, anyway.

Dealing with House was all about strategies, compromise (when necessary), and games. Once you got the hang of it, you could handle him. He was not often as cruel of a man as most of the staff believed him to be, though he could do a fine job of living up to his reputation—there was something oddly respectable about him which kept people around. Otherwise, she thought, and laughed, he would've been lynched already; if not by Foreman, then by a patient. Perfect grades in medical school the man had and she'd swear her father's retriever had better social skills.

Of course… the leg. That was a large part of the reason why she tried so hard, fought so hard to make sure he didn't get himself killed. That and the fact that he was one of the best doctors she'd ever had.

Not today, though. Today he was ready to go for the jugular and Cuddy found herself wanting to hide out with her secretary. If she'd just known where the woman _was_, she might have.

"Are you _insane_?" House said, banging his cane on the ground angrily, once, twice. A painting on the opposite wall vibrated and fell askew. "Do you _enjoy_ torturing your doctors? Is this some new _kink_ of yours?"

Cuddy sighed and took a much-needed deep breath. "What," she said, upon exhale, "are you talking about?"

"James Wilson. Head of Oncology. Remember, Pied Piper for all the bald little cancer kids?" House hissed. Yes, Cuddy decided, "hissed" was the best word for it.

"Calm down, House, and explain so I have at least an atom of knowledge regarding _what_, exactly, you _mean_. _What_ about Dr. Wilson?"

"He is chained to a bed," House said, biting every word neatly off like rapid-fire pellets from a machine gun, "humiliated, devastated, and beat nearly to death, though he would never admit to any of it. And your damn staff is calling him suicidal. You know Wilson as well as I do. _Suicidal_? It's his damn wife, not a Gillette in the tub at midnight, that's for _damn_ sure, and I—"

Cuddy held up a hand. "Three things, House. First, I had nothing to do with this. Wilson fainted at my feet and I had a meeting, so I paged _you_ to take care of him. It's not my fault if you didn't answer and someone else got there first. We are, if you'll remember, in a _hospital_.

"Second, if someone is hurting Wilson, he needs to call the police. You can think it's his wife all you want, but unless you can come up with some kind of _proof_, you're going to have to get him to admit it. I have no idea one way or the other.

"And third—" She paused. "Third, House, why do you care?"

House stared at her. "I'm cruel," he said, "but I'm not that cruel."

Cuddy was silent for a moment, and then she nodded. "I'll make sure he gets set free," she said. "You're right. The man fainted, he didn't slit his throat."

"Good," said House, and with that he turned and left.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, Cuddy laughed when her secretary poked her head up from behind her blotter and slid quietly into her seat again. Then she picked up her pager and set about the business of removing one of her best, most reputable doctors from suicide watch. Of all the things to be doing on a Monday—and for Wilson, of all people. What were the odds?

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**I**n his lifetime, Wilson could not remember ever feeling more relieved than he did as the nurse on duty undid his bindings, her fingers deftly sliding along the leather like a magic trick. She said nothing about the drying salty tracks of tears on his cheeks or the way he shrank back when she leaned too close, overly-painted lips brushing together mere inches from his eyes and musky, flowery perfume flooding his senses. When he'd thanked her and she left him alone again, he adjusted his bed to a proper sitting position—he didn't feel well enough to get up yet—tried to cover himself more effectively with the thin hospital blankets, rubbed his eyes with one hand, and settled down to study the insides of his eyelids for a bit. House, in his insulting, blunt way, had been right; he _did_ look like hell. He felt rather like it as well, and he intended to amend the situation as soon as possible. He could do nothing for the scars he bore on his forearms and upper thighs but hide them, which did not work so well when he had to wear a hospital gown; that was, he thought, probably why whichever staff had found him on the floor had deemed him suicidal. He certainly didn't look sane, and he didn't blame them—he would've done the same thing.

Wilson shifted his head an inch or so in order to arrange it more comfortably on the pillow and closed his eyes. For the first time in a little too long, he thought, he might get some sleep.


	4. III

**A/N: **I tried to make things realistic. I'm not sure if I did a good job. It wasn't—er—easy to find a balance between giving in and fighting back.

**III.**

**J**ulie's face wrinkled when she was angry.

The rational part of Wilson's mind realized that, under the circumstances, this was a rather odd thing to notice, but the irrational part, the part which focused on things like survival instincts and sheer, unmitigated fear, considered it the perfect mental focal point. A safety blanket. A binky, if you would. Thinking about the way Julie's face wrinkled meant he didn't have to think about the other things she was up to—didn't, of course, make them disappear, didn't make them hurt any less, but provided—at least—a brief mental respite.

When they'd married, her face was smooth. But it wrinkled when she was angry.

Wilson's situation was complicated, ironically enough, largely because he'd spent so many years trying to be a gentleman. By the time he realized that saving himself meant he would have to inflict pain on his wife, she had taken too many liberties, gone just a bit too far. Done just a bit too much. Crossed the line. He tried to fight her off, tried to fight back, but when she was not attacking him with anything she found handy, she was screaming, cursing, telling him he was worthless.

And eventually it happened.

She began to make him believe her.

It was two days into his Christmas vacation when Julie first tried to break him. They'd had a fight and he'd found himself sitting hours later, bruised and swollen, at a chair in the kitchen, idly scratching Charlie and clutching like a lifeline the same shirt which had just ignited her fit because she'd smelled another woman's perfume. At first he smelled only Downy, but as time went on the scent of clean laundry transformed into that of the hot woman in radiology—and perhaps maybe he had had an affair with her. He couldn't remember. What if he had? She wouldn't hurt him if he didn't deserve it. She loved him.

Didn't she?

That afternoon he'd shed a single silent tear into Charlie's fur and retreated for hours to his office at PPTH. He showed up at House's with a six-pack and the latest Girls Gone Wild on Christmas Eve and spent the evening eating Chinese, listening to House's version of James Taylor, drinking their favorite beer, and icing his knee—he blamed the swelling and sprain on a running accident and was too tired to be perceptive when House didn't believe him. He had another fight with Julie because he stayed out on a holiday, but he didn't miss New Year's Eve. That night the throbbing of his ribs accompanied the dropping of the ball. His main problem, when he fought back, because he refused to merely sit and be wounded, was that he simply could not hit her as hard as she hit him, hard enough to hold her off. His main problem was that he still loved her.

He began to mark time by his injuries.

Exhaustion, for the most part, kept him from realizing that people were slowly beginning to catch on. It clouded his senses and overwhelmed him at the oddest of times. He found himself becoming instinctively afraid of things which had not bothered him in the slightest before. He had to give up tennis because he was no longer comfortable around the ball, which seemed to head rapidly for your face just when you least expected it to; she threw things at him. She screamed at him; he watched as his confidence was depleted. When she got close enough to throw a punch, he'd restrain her or even punch back, but she quickly learned and found other ways to injure him; while he was sleeping, or from across the room, or with her newly-discovered sharp tongue. He had never cheated on Julie, but he became so afraid of accidentally, perhaps subconsciously, doing so that he often prevented himself from so much as looking at other women for fear he might jump them.

He adapted his wardrobe so that, regardless of what he wore, where he went, his scars would not be visible. She was wearing him down with her deprecation, the candlesticks she liked to wing at him, and the lies she fed him until he nearly accepted them as truth. He was ashamed—horribly ashamed; he was a man who'd been beaten by his wife, and if that was not the epitome of spinelessness, he thought, what was? And even if he were to try to get help, who would he ask? What could he do? He needed her signature to get a divorce, and he'd been with her so long that—the worst part of all—he was becoming afraid to try.

She'd find out. He knew it. She'd find out.

Oh, God, no, she'd find out!

"Wilson. Wilson."

It was an Australian accent. Julie didn't have one of those, did she? For a moment he couldn't remember; then it hit him.

Shit. Princeton-Plainsboro.

Wilson opened his eyes and blinked once or twice. His sight was rather fuzzy, and he soon realized that this was because there was a light in his face. Chase. He should've known.

"What are you doing, Chase?" he asked. "I'm fine."

"You were hallucinating," Chase said, somewhat defensively, clicking off the light and taking a step backward. "Moving round and saying all sorts of funny things like 'She'll find out!' Or something."

"It was a dream," Wilson said. "Trust me, I'm fine."

"Sure." Chase eyed him. "You don't look so good, you know."

"I know."

"Cameron's a bit worried about you."

"Cameron's sweet," Wilson said wearily. He was tired of conversation, tired of people, tired of pain, but going to sleep didn't sound like such a good idea either, not if he was going to dream like that again. And just then—oh, perfect timing really—came the familiar pounding at the door. House was back. Before Wilson had time to wonder _why_, he was in the room.

"Chase," House said, by way of greeting—Wilson wasn't sure if it could be considered that, since he'd never really seen House "greet" anybody.

"Er… House," said Chase, rather warily.

"Done blinding Dr. Wilson? Good. Off with you then. We grown-ups have something we need to discuss, and we don't want you nosy little Brits eavesdropping."

"He was having _hallucinations_," Chase insisted, desperate to justify the waving of his light in Wilson's face, and left the room mildly annoyed. House glanced at Wilson to gauge his reaction to the term "hallucinations," but Wilson shook his head.

"It was a dream," he said. "That's it. Perfectly ordinary." He paused. "Why the visit, House?"

"What, did you forget that we needed to talk _already_, Wilsie?"

Wilson sighed and allowed his lips to curve into a wry grin. "Just because you got me off suicide watch doesn't mean you get to call me Wilsie."

House grinned slyly himself. "How'd you know who busted you out?"

Wilson shrugged with his good arm, feigning innocence. "What do you get when you combine one middle-aged, self-conscious, gossipy nurse and one extremely overactive hospital rumor mill? A news and communications system faster than E-mail, that's what." In the act of shifting position, he bumped his injured shoulder. The pain was not much and he only allowed himself to wince for a moment, but it was enough—unfortunately—to remind House of the topic at hand.

"Where'd you get the battle scars, Wilson?" House said. He was suddenly serious, and again Wilson marveled at the rapidity of his emotions. He was not sickeningly sweet, did not even seem, to the untrained eye, very kind, but he went from laughter to solemnity in under a minute, and he eyeballed Wilson in a manner which was not threatening so much as curious and—dare he say it?—perhaps even, just a bit, solely for an instant, _caring_.

Though he forced himself to acknowledge the fact he could be imagining the situation, Wilson had not felt like he had a friend in months, and suddenly he did.

This was not like House—oh, no, not like House at all. It was almost creepy.

And Wilson found himself fighting an overpowering urge to honestly answer the question.

Instead, because he was afraid, he dropped the bed back to its horizontal position again, said, "What battle scars?" and got up, ready, for all intents and purposes, to get dressed and check himself out. It was a lovely idea, if he'd just been able to stand up properly. As it was, he staggered rather pitifully, stumbled across the room, and regained his balance by leaning on the door just as Cuddy opened it. He jumped backward in surprise, felt a crack in his left ankle, and landed somewhat abruptly on the floor.

The last thing he remembered before blacking out was House laughing uproariously. Laughing, and reaching out a hand to help him up.


	5. IV

**A/N: **Nobody said it stunk—thanks guys xD—so I thought I might add a bit more. Everybody, Wilson included, deserves _some_ real closure.

**IV.**

**I**t was about six o' clock that evening when Cuddy ran into two of her most valuable doctors—oh, how she hated to admit that—on their way out. If it were not for the solemnity of the situation, she would have burst out laughing; as it was, she found restraining herself was no simple matter.

While, ordinarily, Dr. Wilson had to match his steps and stride to Dr. House's, today it was the other way around. Wilson was dressed in his original clothes again—sans tie—looking slightly more normal, but he had a cast on his left ankle due to the—er—accident with the door, he was supporting himself with a pair of crutches, and though he was covering them with sleeves and slacks again, she knew the wounds he had which weren't going to heal. For a moment she wondered if House had been right about the injuries being the fault of Julie Wilson, and she contemplated the satisfaction of bashing the woman's face to shreds with a few nice, well-placed blows. Unfortunately, Deans didn't do such things.

That was, she thought, altogether too bad.

House, on the other hand, looked dapper and dashing in comparison to Wilson for once. His gait seemed to have improved; he wasn't limping as heavily as per his usual. The humor of the moment lay entirely in the way the two of them looked _together_. Cuddy knew they were _friends_, but it wasn't often that they _matched_.

As she watched them approach, she noticed a few things which hadn't seemed so obvious before; Wilson stayed a pace further away from House, rather than moving shoulder-to-shoulder with him; in turn, House seemed to have a pretty good idea when Wilson was becoming uncomfortable, and would either lower his voice a bit or move slightly apart again. Cuddy felt a rush of guilt for failing to understand what was going on previously, but she consoled herself with the reminder that she wasn't really to blame—after all, who _had_ figured it out? If House couldn't, the odds were no one could have.

"We don't need any more Girls Gone Wild," House said to Wilson in an abnormally loud stage whisper as they came within hearing range, "we have the hottest Dean in fifteen counties." Wilson sighed and shook his head, but he was still hard put to keep himself from grinning. Even though they'd been talking about her, Cuddy found herself wanting to grin too.

"Wilson?" she said, nearly putting a hand on his arm before she caught herself.

"Yes?" he replied, pausing gingerly and flashing her another of his shy smiles. (With those, she understood the basis for his reputation.)

"The janitors did a remarkably quick job of removing your papers from the air vents," Cuddy said, smiling, "and you can have them back. I believe they're all here." From the bottom of a drawer, she removed a rather thick sheaf of documents, and then she paused, uncertain as to what to do with them; it was clear Wilson couldn't carry them, and House was already halfway to the door. Wilson was suggesting he try to fix the clasp back on his briefcase when House heaved an exceedingly loud sigh and limped over to them again.

"Give 'em to me," he said. "Cane only takes one hand."

Wilson shrugged and grinned to Cuddy when House was leaving again. "Thanks," he said, quietly, and then he made a valiant attempt at hobbling, in a dignified manner, away.

When the door swung shut behind them, Cuddy sat down and indulged herself in a private smile. They were good men, both of them; good men, good doctors, and good friends, and when they were with each other, she knew they were in good hands. And that was lucky, because, for a Dean of Medicine with far more lawsuits than she felt she deserved, she needed every reassurance she could get.

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**W**ilson hobbled alongside House until they reached the parking lot, when he found himself faced with a rather problematic conundrum. They had arrived in separate cars; as such, they should leave in separate cars, and the odds were that once they did they would wind up returning to their separate homes. Wilson's problem was that he did not _want_ to go back to the house where he lived. In fact, as he stood, balanced somewhat precariously with his crutches, and touched his hand to the door of his car, he realized he was terrified of it. He glanced at House, who was a few spaces down heading toward his Corvette, and let out a weary sigh. It seemed he would have no other choice.

He'd just rested his crutches against the side of the car so he could begin the process of climbing in when he heard an engine behind him and a very familiar voice.

"You going to stand there all night," it said, "or come watch good porn, eat pizza 'till you puke, and drown your poor angsty teenage troubles in beer?"

To Wilson, a comfortable night on the couch under a blanket in his own boxer shorts (not an annoying hospital gown) while House griped about his latest case and noodled away on the piano sounded like a much better idea, but regardless of what they wound up doing, he knew he didn't want to go back to Julie. So he grabbed his crutches again, hobbled over to the passenger side, and clumsily climbed inside when House flung open the door. For a moment, he was able to forget why he didn't want to go home—and for that, he was grateful.

House glanced over at him after he'd dumped his crutches in the back seat and settled himself with one or two quiet sounds of relief. At first Wilson thought that House was going to say something about Julie, but he was comfortably silent on that topic and instead remarked, "You still look like hell."

"Gee, thanks," Wilson said.

At the next stop light, House took his eyes off the road again and said, "You can still look cool in this baby if you're sleeping in it, you know. It is _that_ awesome."

Wilson took the hint. The leather of the seat was astonishingly soft, not at all like that of the restraints used at PPTH (he already feared he might have nightmares about those), and it wasn't more than two blocks before he'd dozed off. He did not so much as snore or stir until they reached House's place, where House rather unceremoniously blasted Bohemian Rhapsody to provide an incredibly effective wake-up call. Wilson dreamed about nothing at all. It was the best sleep he'd had in a year and a half.

They went inside and amiably bickered for a few minutes over what Chinese to order, as they always did. Wilson examined the contents of House's medicine cabinet so he could change the bandage on his shoulder; when he removed the dressing, he was pleased to notice that the wound had stopped bleeding and begun to clot. The night before she'd flung a fork at him over the dinner table with a surprising amount of force; he hadn't been able to dodge it in time and had had to remove it from his arm later. The next thing she threw, though, he'd deflected with her favorite china plate, and that brought an end to the flying cutlery fairly soon.

House was watching The Princess Bride when Wilson got back to the living room; it was probably House's all-time favorite movie, which, if you thought about it, was really rather odd, but Wilson didn't care; for at least one night, he didn't have to go back. He didn't plan on thinking about the next until he had to.

House, on the other hand, had altogether different ideas.

Different, Wilson thought idly. Now there was House in a nutshell.

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**W**henever House thought about the events of the day, as he could not stop himself from doing a few times too many for comfort, he wondered about the same thing, and it was beginning to plague him. He and Wilson were, if anything, like brothers. Wilson was the only one who had never left him, and the only one House almost felt he could trust—even then, there were many times when he was still afraid, felt the need to push the boundaries, to see if maybe, if he just pushed hard enough, Wilson would leave anyway. Like everybody else. But House pushed and Wilson stayed, and House pushed and Wilson stayed, and after a time, though House knew he could never _fully_ trust Wilson—probably could never fully trust another human being again—he also knew he could come close enough. It was comfortable. Wilson needed to be needed, and now Wilson was the one doing the needing, and House had never before quite realized how nice it felt to be depended on by someone else. Not that he'd turn nice and become Wilson or anything. Ties that ugly? They'd have to kill him first.

As such, the question that plagued him was this: why hadn't Wilson told him?

In the same abrupt fashion House did everything else (life was so much more fun that way), he turned to Wilson and asked.

"What?" sputtered Wilson, dropping his chopsticks into his lo mein. "What was that?"

As Westley helped Buttercup through the Fire Swamp, House repeated his question. "So why didn't you tell me?"

"Tell you what?" Wilson asked.

"That Julie beat the shit out of you."

"I never said Julie had anything to do with anything. That was all _your_ idea."

"So go home to her," House said. "_Prove _she has nothing to do with anything."

House had not known anyone's face could lose color quite that quickly.

"_I _can prove _my_ side," he said, with a smirk which was not as pesky as his usual. He leaned over and fished a form from the pocket of his leather jacket. It was, oddly enough, the same form which had been sucked through the air vents at the time Wilson fell.

"See this?" House said, pointing to a telling spot of something red in the upper right-hand corner. "Looks an awful lot like blood, doesn't it?"

Wilson sat and stared at him. He was utterly silent.

"I bet if I ran this through the lab, I'd have plenty of evidence for you, pal. Like that, for starters. Unless you recently decided to dye your hair blond, I'd be willing to bet—" House jabbed a finger at something on the paper "—_that_ isn't yours. The blood, on the other hand, is much easier. Speaks for itself really."

Wilson moved not a muscle, only shifted his gaze to the television. It was time for the wild dog to die in Count Rugen's Machine.

"You should know better than to fight near work from the hospital," House said, and then went back to munching his food. Well, he was done. Whether or not Wilson wanted to talk, the ball was in his court. And Wilson had better take advantage of it damn soon, because House didn't do listening, didn't do mushy friendship stuff. This time, though, he was beginning to realize that he might actually care. For years, Wilson had cared about him; maybe it was finally up to him to return the favor.

House figured, after all the crap he put Wilson through, he owed him at least that.

And so he muted the movie.

There was silence in his living room for a few minutes and he was contemplating giving up and going to the piano, saying screw the whole thing, he was no therapist, when Wilson spoke brokenly into the quiet.

"I was afraid."

House didn't turn to look at him, kept staring at the soundless television screen.

"I didn't tell you because I was afraid."

"Of what?" House said. He resisted, with less difficulty than he'd expected, the urge to tell a joke, to cover up feeling with humor again. It wasn't the time.

"Of—of her," Wilson said. "It was her, it is her. I was afraid to tell you, and I was ashamed."

More silence. Inigo and Fezzik were reunited, and Fezzik began trying to cleanse Inigo of brandy. House realized he knew the lines to the film by heart and could say them in his mind along with the characters. He wondered why he still felt the need to watch it.

"I started to believe her. Started to think, after a while, that what she said was true. Started to—to doubt myself," Wilson said, and trailed off. About ten minutes passed.

"How long?" House asked.

"Few years."

"How often?"

"Whenever I deserved it."

At that, House put his hand on the arm of the couch and turned to face Wilson. "Haven't you learned _anything_ today?" he asked, trying, for Wilson's sake, not to become too angry.

"That it's easier than it sounds to convince people you're suicidal?" Wilson offered weakly.

"That you didn't deserve it. Didn't deserve _any_ of it. _Nobody_," House said, "and damn it, I mean _nobody_, deserves that. Not even _Vogler_, though he might come close. Do you understand me?"

"I get it," Wilson said, and he sounded exhausted. "It's just—it's not easy."

"What about New Year's?" House asked, a few minutes later.

Wilson didn't reply, but House got the idea.

"Listen to me closely," he said, "because you'll only hear this once in your lifetime. I care about you. And I owe you. A lot. You hear me?"

Wilson gave a quick, abrupt nod.

"It's like—I don't know, it's like a brother thing, okay? The only one allowed to beat the shit out of you is me."

"I'm not going to leave," Wilson said quietly. Now it was House's turn to be surprised.

"I'm not going to leave," he repeated. "I know you think I will, but I'm not going to leave." And House knew what he meant.

"Okay," House said. "Okay." So, he thought. This is how it feels to trust someone.

Wilson sighed, long and deep. He felt he was finally providing his problems with a means of escape, letting them into the open air to evaporate in puffs of gas. He closed his eyes and rested his head against the couch.

"You don't have to go back. Court—you can sue. File for divorce. Like I said, you have all the evidence you need." House wasn't good at comforting, but he was willing to give it a shot.

"House?"

House glanced over at Wilson, who was limp. Drained. Pretty much half-dead. And… undeniably relaxed. Maybe even at peace.

"Yeah, Wilsie?" he said, throwing a fortune cookie at Wilson's head. It made contact with a small cracking sound and split. Wilson reached up and extracted the fortune from his crumb-filled hair.

YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE FOR THE BETTER.

BE READY.

02146784431190602394587

He grinned and tiredly flicked it back at House.

"Thanks," Wilson said. He meant it for more than the cookie, and somehow he knew House understood.

House turned the volume back up, and they watched the rest of the movie together, with House running his own quirky commentary every chance he got. When the credits began to roll, Wilson grabbed a blanket from the closet and carefully stretched out on the couch. House wandered over to his piano and began to play.

Wilson drifted off to sleep on the strains of Paper Moon, and he dreamed again of nothing at all. And as the last quiet note faded into the darkness, floated up to the waiting stars, he smiled a drowsy smile at the ceiling and knew, for the first time in years, how it felt to be happy.


	6. V

**V.**

**T**he trial was in two weeks, on a Thursday. Wilson had always privately thought Thursday was the worst day of the week, and this just cemented the belief for him. While most people, House—of course—included, considered Monday the worst day of the week because it was the start of work, for years Wilson had looked _forward_ to the start of work—it meant he got to get out of the house. Thursday was not Friday, which was bad enough in itself, but it was the day before, and that meant Wilson spent the entire time dreading the next. And now Thursday was the day of the trial. "I'm sorry," Wilson said, "I don't have time to buy your encyclopedia," and he hung up the phone.

A remote hit the couch beside him. Wilson gave an involuntary jump and looked up to find House standing in the doorway smirking.

"Secret girlfriend?"

Wilson stiffened and dropped his gaze and House sighed, striding forward to retrieve the remote himself. "General Hospital," he said, "is on, and we are not watching it. This activity, or should I say non-activity, is so heinous it should be criminal. I certainly hope you have an excuse which will hold up in a court of law."

"I have a _question_," Wilson said, and waited until House glanced at him. "Why aren't you at work?"

"No time for questions," said House, "it's time for TV." And he sat down on the couch across from Wilson. Wilson noticed the fact that House sat more gently than he usually did and was relieved.

House flipped on the television and grabbed his beer from the coffee table. "You know I spend all week thinking of reasons _not_ to go to work," he said, taking a swig, "especially when we don't have a case—and we don't—and now that I have a ready-made perfect excuse in my own home, you ask me why I'm not there? Have to be an idiot to pass up an opportunity like this."

Wilson grinned at him. "Wouldn't have anything to do with me, would it?"

"'Course not. It has _everything_ to do with you. Now shut up. Show's on."

Wilson sighed. "Yup. This is why I became a doctor."

House quirked a brow without removing his eyes from the screen.

"To get my best friend, who's _also_ a doctor, mind you, out of going to work because—"

Wilson, though he'd _begun_ the quip rather well, found he couldn't quite bring himself to finish the sentence.

"You broke your ankle when the Dean opened the door in your face."

"She's had it in for me for years, you know."

"I believe it. Woman's vindictive. Why else would she give me all those clinic hours?" House rolled his eyes. "This is it. Either shut up or I force you to—"

For a moment, Wilson feared House would say "go home," though he knew it was irrational and House couldn't force him into it anyway. He swallowed.

"—watch Vertigo."

"But I like Vertigo."

"What's your point? And what did I just say?"

"Er—shut up?"

House turned up the volume and Wilson got the message. Using the arm of the couch and his crutches, he pushed himself to his feet to begin the journey to House's kitchen. He'd started to notice that distances seemed a lot longer when you couldn't walk without aid. This, he supposed, was what House _always_ had to endure, and he felt a brief rush of sympathy. His movement was enough to draw House's attention—he glanced in Wilson's direction and raised an eyebrow again.

"Gotta make a phone call."

House shrugged and went back to watching his show, ignoring the fact that the cordless was still beside Wilson's can of beer where he'd abandoned it a few minutes ago.

Wilson put a hand on the wall for support as he turned into the hallway and made his way around the corner. He passed up the phone hanging by the light switch entirely, touching the handle of the fridge instead, pulling it open. For the phone call he was about to make, he needed a fresh drink. Someone from the television in the living room was heard audibly confessing her love. Wilson popped the top on his beer and reached for the receiver.

"Get a lawyer," he said, when he heard the familiar answering machine. "It's over. Court's two weeks from Thursday. You'll get the papers in the mail." He paused. "I'm sorry," he said. He hung up.

The sounds of General Hospital filled the apartment. Wilson left his beer untouched on the counter, the second one that day, and headed in the opposite direction. "House?" he called.

Being deprived of the opportunity to make a snappish, non-verbal remark, House growled, "Yes?"

"Can I take a shower?"

"I don't know. _Can_ you?"

Wilson wanted to grin but could not make his face obey. It fell instead.

"Just take the shower," House sighed.

Wilson took a step.

"And don't use all the hot water, either."

Wilson heard the volume being raised and walked into the restroom. He propped his crutches against the sink and levered himself onto the toilet, where he began to remove the bandage from his shoulder. The wound had stopped bleeding entirely and was instead scabbing over quite pleasantly. Wilson tossed the bandage into the trash, tilted his head back until it touched the wall, and closed his eyes.

That was where House found him forty-five minutes later, asleep.

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**T**he night before, House reflected, had actually not been so bad. Wilson had gone to bed, and House had played his favorite song until he fell asleep; oddly enough, when he'd passed by to go to his own room, he'd noticed Wilson was grinning. He himself hadn't slept for longer than he'd expected, and he knew it hadn't been from his usual insomnia; it was in the foggy hours of the early morning when he'd drifted off, and it was around eight o' clock when he'd woken to someone in the kitchen.

To his surprise it had been Wilson, balanced uneasily on his crutches by the stove and turning pancakes—his favorite kind—with a spatula. House supposed it was in return for his previous sympathy and his uncomplaining acceptance of Wilson's residence. He didn't care as long as his friend's guilt came along with those half-dollar slices of heaven.

He'd talked Wilson, with some difficulty, into calling a lawyer at around nine and retreated to the shower until he heard the click of the phone. At ten-thirty, thanks to Wilson's wheedling and the fact that he knew perfectly well where the man's car was (the parking lot of Princeton-Plainsboro), he drove downtown, dropped Wilson off at his lawyer's office, and swung by to pick up some lunch—a Reuben, no pickles for him and a ham-and-cheese on sourdough for Wilson. It was the first time in ten years he'd paid for anyone's lunch. In fact, he realized, laughing to himself as the tinny jingle of a commercial began playing, it was the first time in five he'd paid for his own.

Wilson hadn't said much when House picked him up, only thanked him for the ride and the sandwich and fell asleep again for the rest of the trip home. He hadn't mentioned his visit with the lawyers at all. House assumed that, after his confession, Wilson needed a break and a long nap; he didn't have a problem with that himself and didn't particularly want another deep, emotional conversation either, but he figured under the circumstances they'd probably have to have one eventually. He'd woken Wilson up with The Who that time. It was about noon.

They'd sat in the living room to eat lunch while watching a TiVo-ed episode of Blackadder. When Wilson, who hadn't spoken in half an hour, remarked that he needed to use the phone, House had gone to get another beer and waited in the doorway until he heard Wilson hang up, and then he'd come back in to watch General Hospital. Though it had been amusing watching the man struggle to politely refuse the offer of a telemarketer, he was not about to miss his show for it.

Twenty-five minutes into General Hospital had come Wilson's request for a shower of his own, and as the program came to a close House stretched his bad leg on the vacated seat and drew a deep breath.

It was just then that the phone rang.

House jerked his cordless off the coffee table, punched the "Talk" button and snarled, "House."

"Coming to work today?"

"It's—" House glanced at the clock "—three o' clock. Bit late really."

"Oh—right." There was a pause.

"Cuddy?" House smirked.

"Yes?"

"You're actually _worried_, aren't you?"

Silence. "A little. Is he all right?"

House sighed. Feelings. He had to discuss them again. Sure, they weren't his own, but in the grand scheme of things that didn't really count. "Took him to the lawyer's this morning," he said.

"Lawyer's?"

Fully prepared to savor the moment—he'd gloat, oh, he'd gloat—House said, "I was right."

"You were right?" said Cuddy.

"Tell you what. Say it again, and don't make it a question this time."

House swore he heard Cuddy heave a grudging sigh. "Fine, House. You were right."

He grinned and waited. His leg throbbed. Shit, he thought, time for another happy pill, and reached into the pocket of his jacket. He was able to take two before Cuddy spoke again; though he knew if _she_ knew she'd kill him for it, he washed them down with a swig of beer.

"So it _was_ Julie?"

"Oh yes. Not sure _what_ the two of them were up to, but either they have some super kinky bedroom manners or they haven't exactly been Lucille Ball and Desi Arnez."

"_You_ watch _I Love Lucy_?"

"That one's a great kink of _mine_. Know what's a really cool party game?"

House imagined Cuddy rolling her eyes. "No, House, I don't. What's a really cool party game?"

"How many times can you say 'Vitameatavegimen' stoned?"

"Oh, for heaven's _sake_—" Cuddy paused. "Look. How is Wilson, and when can he come back to work?"

"Why don't you ask him yourself? I'm not—" he snickered "—my brother's keeper."

"Why don't you give him the _phone_?"

"Fine, we'll do it the easy way." House dumped the phone on the couch beside his leg, leaned back and hollered, "Wilsie!" He tapped his fingers against the sofa, waited a minute, and tried again. Midway through the "ie" he remembered.

"He's all hot, sweaty and wet right now," he purred into the mouthpiece, "we'll have to call you back."

Absolute silence.

"Oh, for such a stacked woman you can drain the fun out of just about anything, can't you?" House sighed. "He's in the shower."

"I'll call later," Cuddy said. There was a final pause. "And how do you know they're real?"

And before he could answer, she hung up.

"If they weren't real they wouldn't jiggle like Jell-O when you walk down the hall," House said to the empty room. He set his leg gently back on the ground and was about to scrounge up some food someplace when he realized Wilson had been in the shower for a pretty long time and, as far as he remembered, he hadn't heard water. Unless Wilson was into taking _dry_ showers, which didn't seem right for a guy who was so ridiculously _feminine_ about his looks, something was up. Maybe he'd broken the other ankle. House grinned—at least he'd be symmetrical—sighed over the sheer injustice of the world, and headed off to check.


	7. VI

**VI.**

"**W**ilson."

A fish with a cane—since when did fish need canes?—swam by in the blackness before Wilson's eyes and he felt his lips curve into a smile. It was House. Well, it was the aquatic version, but it was still House. Why was he dreaming about fish anyway?

"Wilson, wake up." There was something on his shoulder. Shit, he hadn't let her get that close in years. He shoved himself backward, struck out viciously with his left arm, opened his eyes. She was going to come after him again.

Wait a minute. He was in House's bathroom—alone? Now that didn't quite fit. Who'd been waking him up then? Wilson glanced down almost fearfully, half expecting to see Julie, and—oops. Problem solved, there was House.

"House?"

"Mike Tyson?"

"I'm sorry," he said, "I thought you were—"

"Forget it, I know who you thought I was." House sighed. "It was my fault. Now are you going to help the cripple up or keep sitting there like a deer in headlights?"

"Right." Wilson took a deep breath and extended his left hand. House grabbed it and, with the support of Wilson's weight and the bathtub, pulled himself to his feet again. He knew his leg would get him for those little aerobics in the morning, but the buzz from the Vicodin hadn't worn off yet, and so he wasn't really in any more pain. At any rate, it was tolerable.

"You've—uh, you've got a little—"

House glanced in the mirror. His nose was bleeding. "Had worse," he said.

Wilson rubbed the bridge of his own nose and realized that he'd rolled up his sleeves. He was in the middle of rolling them back down and fastening the buttons on each cuff when House finished examining the damage to his face and glanced over.

"I've seen 'em."

Wilson buttoned his shirt anyway and shifted his position until he was seated more comfortably. "What are you doing?" he said. "I still have to take a shower."

"I don't call sleeping showering, do you? Take it later," House said, "won't kill you." He paused. "This is the second time in forty-eight hours and I just had my last beer, so you'd better be grateful, but—" he rolled his eyes "—I think I need to talk to you again."

Wilson blinked. The bandage he'd thrown in the garbage seemed to be staring at him. He grabbed his crutches, levered himself to his feet, and mutely followed House out to the living room. He was staying in the man's house. He didn't see he had a choice.

House sat down at the piano and touched his fingers softly to the keys. Halfway through some piece of Chopin—the melody was graceful, haunting, but Wilson couldn't place it—Wilson interrupted him.

"What is it?"

"What is what?" said House, over the sound of the piano.

"You wanted to talk to me about something. What is it?"

"What makes you think I wanted to talk about _something_? Maybe I wanted to talk about _nothing_. What then?"

"You dragged me out of the shower for _this_?"

"Cuddy called," House said. "Wanted to see how you were doing. She'll call back later. She was—" he turned and leered "—_worried_."

"That was nice of her," said Wilson. He shook his beer can, determined that he still had about half left, and took a swallow. House eyed the drink enviously but said nothing. Ten minutes passed, and Wilson resigned himself to another conversation. "Two weeks from Thursday," he said. "Court date. That what you wanted to know?"

House stopped playing long enough to speak. "I don't _want_ to know _anything_," he said gruffly, "but _you_ obviously have something you still need to _say_. So spill, and maybe then we can go back to work."

"You? Want to go to _work_?" There was no answer.

"I called her," Wilson said. House was quiet. The piano filled the silence.

"I didn't want to. But I did anyway."

"This is a court case," House said. "Lawyers, you know, the snakey people—they generally get stuck with the dirty stuff."

"I know." Wilson shrugged. "I didn't have to. I'm sorry."

House spun around on the seat abruptly with, Wilson noted, surprising speed. "Stop apologizing to me." Without the music, the room seemed abnormally empty.

"Huh?"

"I said stop apologizing to me. I'm a jerk and you're a grown man. It may be bruised, but I'm pretty sure you still have a spine."

"You're right." Wilson stared at the ground and wiggled his beer with his thumb. "But I can't."

House went back to his playing.

"Two years ago," Wilson said, "I sat with my dog and I cried." He squinted through the opening of the can at the bitter-tasting amber liquid inside. "Sat there for an hour. I couldn't remember what was real. Whether I'd actually had an affair. In the morning I knew I hadn't, but then I couldn't remember." He paused. "You know that running accident? Wasn't a running accident."

House's head moved briefly in a nod.

"I quit playing tennis. Couldn't take the things coming at my face. I'd hold her down, so she'd throw things." He touched his shoulder without thinking. "Pretty good arm really."

The music continued. Wilson erupted.

"You're the one who wanted me to talk, House," he said angrily, slamming down his beer, "so quit playing and listen."

Miracle of miracles, House did, but he didn't turn around. "You think I want to hear?"

Wilson was, to say the least, caught off guard. "What?"

"You think I want to hear this? You think I want to sit here and listen to you tell me this? Not a chance in hell, Wilsie, not a chance in hell."

"Okay," Wilson said quietly. "I understand. I'm so—" He caught himself in time, lifted his feet onto the coffee table and reached for the remote.

"You don't get it, do you?" House grabbed his cane and stood facing Wilson in the middle of the room. "You just don't get it." He shook his head, slightly deflated, and sat down, keeping his movements conservative. "Put The O.C. on."

Wilson scrolled through the TiVo, realized it was on live, and complied.

"I'm not a good man. I'm not a good person. I don't do emotions, I don't do feelings, I don't do therapy. You know the only real way to keep from getting hurt?" House spat. "Well, I'll tell you. _Distance_."

"Not when she can throw," Wilson whispered.

House looked at the television and didn't say anything for a minute. "I'm not who you'd like to believe I am," he said finally. "I, Wilson, am a full-fledged, grade-A bastard. But I thought—" he shook his head "—maybe I hoped, just a little—that I was a better friend than I knew I was. You stuck around. I didn't want to, but I must've been doing something right." He paused.

"I may want to be miserable," he said, "misery may be my life, I may not give a crap about anyone else, but it still feels good when someone trusts you—even when they shouldn't."

"You do give a crap about somebody," Wilson said, "you give a crap about me." He carefully met House's eyes. "Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

"You couldn't tell me."

"What?"

"You couldn't tell me," House repeated. "You were afraid to tell me what was just about the biggest thing in your life, when I thought, you blabbermouth, that you told me pretty much everything. Then there you were tied to a bed, beaten, saying your wife had been psychotic for years. I didn't _want_ you to tell me," House yelled, "because then I might have cared, and I didn't _want_ to care. I didn't _want_ you to tell me, but—" he took a deep breath "—it hurt when you _didn't_. You're the first person to hurt me in ten years. Maybe you deserve a medal." He sank into the couch, shut his eyes, and thumped his cane on the ground. "A medal. A damn medal."

Wilson thought, I did it. This—this is House. He paused. Maybe I broke him.

He looked over at his best friend, who still hadn't moved. No. I didn't. I didn't fix him, but I didn't break him.

I talked to him.

And, he realized, it was all thanks to Julie.


	8. VII

**VII.**

**T**he credits for The O.C. were rolling and Wilson needed a drink. Not necessarily beer—he was pretty much done with alcohol for the day. Maybe water. His neck, without a tie, seemed odd, loose. He wore yesterday's clothes and he was fairly certain he smelled.

But, he thought, glancing at the silent, sulking House, he felt better.

"It was habit," he said. "And I thought she should hear it from me, not a lawyer." He laughed slightly. "Poor man. Caught off guard like that, she could've killed him."

House picked up the remote and started flipping through his TiVo. Unlike before, Wilson knew he was listening. He didn't want to be, but he was.

"I think I fell asleep because I was tired," he continued. House snickered. "Just tired. Tired of everything really." Wilson spoke quietly and slipped into a tone of voice which showed he was not speaking to House so much as to himself, and House relaxed. "I still love her." He paused. "Now that I think about it, that's sad. All those women I _didn't_ love, not really, and the one I've loved for years hates me.

"It all happened so fast," he mused, moving from thought to thought as they appeared. "Yesterday I was pulling forks out of my arm, today I'm sleeping on your couch, trying to file for divorce. When I dreamed about finding a solution it didn't happen like this. There was—" he laughed again "—a therapist involved. Bit like Cameron actually. Marriage counseling. Took awhile for me to give up."

"But you did."

Wilson shook his head a little, as if remembering House was in the room. "Yeah. I did."

"When." It was more of a statement than a question.

"Last year." Wilson shrugged. "Christmas really. We were having lobster. I was over here the night before—maybe you remember?" House didn't say anything, but Wilson hadn't expected input anyway. "I wanted turkey. Lobster was classier. I tried to ask her if she didn't think turkey might have been nicer, more in the holiday spirit of things, and she screamed something—can't remember what—threw her plate at my head. Lobster and all."

There was silence for a minute. "Hadn't been expecting it," Wilson said, "so I couldn't block it. Hit my face and shattered, broke my nose, got lobster bisque in my eye. I remember very vividly that it had too much salt." He licked his lips. "Julie loved salt. Salted everything. It's funny what you remember."

Again House said nothing, settled on an episode of General Hospital he'd missed.

"After that, she left. I couldn't decide whether to feel lucky or unhappy. I thought of calling you—" he stopped "—I thought of calling you, but it was a late dinner and you don't sleep well. I swept up the china, did the dishes. Let Charlie get rid of the lobster. Taped my nose and went into the living room. I was watching Blackadder—" he laughed "—yes, I TiVo it too—when it hit me." Wilson paused.

"It hit me. Normal wives don't throw their dinner at their husbands. I thought, I may love her but I don't think she loves me. Not any more."

He was quiet for another minute.

"The last year was better," he said, "probably because it was easier to hold her off, to treat her as an opponent more than a wife. But when I looked at her…." He drew a deep breath. "When I looked at her, House, she was still the same woman I'd kissed in church, still the same woman I'd vowed to love till death do us part. And it was hard. Oh, God, House, you have no idea." Wilson sighed and shut his eyes. "You have no idea."

House rubbed his leg, looked at the clock, popped a Vicodin. The TV murmured quietly in the corner. Wilson realized that House had turned it down so it was almost completely mute; he couldn't make out the voices at all. He didn't open his eyes. "I'm sorry to kick you out of your own living room, I really am," he said, "but—can I go to sleep?"

"Yeah," House said. "Sure." He hauled himself to his feet and went into the kitchen. The light where Wilson was blinked off and the light in the kitchen switched on; Wilson heard the clinking of glass. He lifted his own bad leg onto the seat House had vacated and removed his shirt. The blanket, which was folded up on the floor, he unfolded and stretched over himself. His pillow was already by his side. He lay down and looked up at the ceiling through the gloom, feeling almost as drained as he had the night before. Almost. But grateful, incredibly grateful. He'd unburdened himself for the first time in years.

Wilson was nearly asleep when House came back into the room, set a tumbler of scotch down on the piano, and began playing Paper Moon.


	9. VIII

**VIII.**

**C**uddy knew House was making showing up in her office more and more of a routine, but she still didn't expect him there at eight in the morning on a Wednesday. Truth be told, she didn't expect him within ten miles of the hospital at eight in the morning on any day really, but what did you know? There he was. And there—she laughed—went her secretary. Eventually, she thought, House would give the poor woman a complex, and _then_ he'd be sorry—because she'd start billing _him_ for the therapy bills which were being passed off as business expenses.

"How's the leg?" she said, by way of greeting, brushing by him and over to her desk.

"The leg?" House said, caught slightly off guard. "It's okay. No worse than usual." He didn't miss a beat. "How's the cleavage?"

"It's okay. No better than usual." Cuddy sat down and began thumbing through forms. "How's Wilson?"

"Better question might be, how did you know he was staying with me anyway? I notice, Ms. Busybody, that you called my _house_."

"If it was his wife—which it probably was—you wouldn't have turned him away. You're cruel," Cuddy said, without looking up, "but you're not _that_ cruel."

House thoughtfully chewed a Vicodin. "Hmm. Point. You're getting better at this."

"How many of those have you taken today? And you know you shouldn't chew them."

"Two, _Mom_," House said, sneering at her, "and, if you've forgotten, I _am_ a doctor."

"A doctor who's addicted to narcotics," said Cuddy, "and you wouldn't be here if you didn't want something. What is it now?"

"A _case_," House said. "I'm dying in the clinic, I really am. It's draining my _soul_. If you don't find me something good and confusing—" he drew a finger dramatically across his throat "—it's curtains for me, and who's going to do that really important job—you know, saving lives—_then_?"

Cuddy neglected to mention the fact that she employed more than twenty other doctors. "I'm sorry," she said, "but I honestly do not have anything that requires a diagnostician. Trust me, if I did I'd give it to you just to get you out of my office. Unfortunately," she shrugged, "looks like it's back to runny noses and sprained ankles for you, Superman."

House sighed irritably, and there was a knock at the door. "Come in," Cuddy called, eyeing him.

Foreman pushed open the door and stepped in. "Where were you?" he said to House, "I got stuck with your hours." He looked at his watch. "And why are you on _time_?"

"Wow, for a minute I forgot who was whose _boss_. I'm dreadfully sorry, master; I don't know how it _possibly_ slipped my mind that I have to account with you for my every absence. Now that's just a crying shame." House bowed his head and feigned submission. Foreman rolled his eyes, ignored him and crossed the room.

"Got those papers you wanted," he said, handing her yet another sheaf of things she had to sort through.

"Thank you," Cuddy said, smiling. "I appreciate it."

"More applications for—" House began, but he met Cuddy's eyes before he could finish and, for once, thought better of it. "Go do more of my hours," he said to Foreman. "Got nothing else for you anyway."

"_Still_ no case? It's been a week and Chase is becoming more of a beaver every day."

"Nope. Chop-chop, black boy, those colds aren't going to treat themselves."

Foreman smirked and, with a "Good morning, ma'am," left.

"You know," Cuddy said, "technically, those are _your_ hours and I can't very well mark them off now I know _Foreman_'s doing them…"

"I get the message." House shrugged and gave her a proper leer. "You dress like you're a lot more friendly than you are."

"Five seconds before you get twenty more. I can just say we're understaffed."

House made an attempt at a sexy growl which sounded more disturbing than anything else—then again, that was probably what he was going for—and left. It wasn't more than ten minutes before there was another knock.

"Come in," Cuddy called, with a sense of déjà vu; she was both surprised and pleased to see Wilson there, wearing his same dress shirt—again, sans tie—coupled with his lab coat and sporting his crutches and a smile. She was _stunned_ that he was wearing House's jeans. They were too big, of course, and dragged a bit over his dress shoes. House never let _anyone_ borrow his clothes.

"Thanks for the call," Wilson said. "It was really nice of you."

"Not a problem," said Cuddy, and she knew it hadn't been. "Are you working today?" She studied his face, which was pale, slightly drawn, and undeniably happier. "Under the circumstances, you know you don't need to. In fact, you probably shouldn't."

"I would, but I'm not sure I'd better." Wilson glanced at her. "Is that all right?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." Wilson grinned and Cuddy found herself suddenly grinning as well. Her professional façade, which had been patchy and near-nonexistent at best, slipped and fell away entirely.

"It's nice to know you're okay, James," she said warmly.

"It is. It really is."

"Well..." Cuddy shrugged and gestured at the mound of paperwork on her desk. "I'd really like to talk to you more, but—"

"I understand completely," Wilson said. "I imagine something of similar proportions lies in wait in my office. I just thought I'd stop by and thank you for the call." He smiled and made for the door. At the jamb he turned, met her eyes quickly, shyly, and said, "And I talked to him."

With that, he was gone. Cuddy pondered his statement for a minute until she suddenly understood what he'd meant.

And when she turned back to her work, her smile was larger than his own.

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**A** week later House had a case, and he was back to being a brat. A considerably more _understanding_ brat, certainly, but a brat nonetheless. Wilson was doing his own job again and had a new small stockpile of shirts and dress slacks, because he'd got his car back. He returned a bit to his normal life; he made pancakes, cooked dinner, burned his tie in an ashtray one Saturday when House was gone, told House futilely not to put the dirty dishes in the oven, slept on the couch, and went to work. He hadn't heard from Julie, not once; part of him wondered what she was up to, what she thought, and part of him—the larger part—was afraid to even think about it. So he didn't think about it, tried to push it to the back of his mind, to the section padlocked and covered in caution tape. He was terrified that the moment he opened the lock he would break down; instead he cracked it apart in small increments, when he felt safe, and spilled his past in pieces—he'd talked to House three times more after that fateful Tuesday evening, each time longer and longer. Once they had been watching Blackadder and he began to cry, broken, half-stifled sobs, before he finished. House just handed him a handkerchief (only House would carry handkerchiefs) and kept watching the show, but Wilson had known he was listening, dried his tears, and continued. House did not look at him while he talked and Wilson no longer asked him to—he understood it wasn't necessary. But at night on those days there was always the piano.

Wilson never knew time could fly so quickly before a hearing. He was afraid of seeing Julie because he wasn't sure what she might do. He was fairly sure, if there was one thing she _hadn't_ expected, it was that he'd take her to court. He was also afraid of what questions he might be asked. Reliving memories with House he found remarkably, surprisingly easy, but he was speechless in the company of anyone else, as if his throat had been sewn shut and packed with cotton (he _had_ seen a therapist, once, before he decided that House, beer, General Hospital and James Taylor were a better cure than he'd ever hoped for), and he worried he might not be able to reply in a courtroom. Julie herself would also be there, of course, which only made it worse. He wanted to hate himself for it, but he still did not have a desire to hurt her.

He hadn't actually considered this new speaking-confidence dilemma until one Friday, after work, when he managed to convince House to go with him for pizza and a beer with Chase and Cameron. He'd given House a ride because the man's leg had been more painful than usual, and—coincidentally—they'd actually shown up at the agreed-upon time; seven. Chase had been waiting at a table in the corner, bottle of beer, red-and-white checked tablecloth and all, and Cameron, uncharacteristically, had been late.

They'd sat down and ordered—Chase remembered Cameron loved pepperoni, so they had three large stuffed-crust supremes, two half pepperoni and half ham-and-pineapple and one a vegetarian special. Wilson hadn't gone out comfortably with friends in more time than he liked to remember and he found the evening very pleasant. There was no tension, no fear, no (real) hostility—he had to include the word "real" because of House, who was never completely _un_hostile but could, when he wanted to, come close enough. Wilson had sipped his beer, savoring its bitterness and distinct taste on his tongue, and listened with half an ear to a discussion of House's current case, a patient who happened to have an abnormally swollen tongue. Cameron had come in just as Chase left for the bathroom and accidentally taken his seat. Wilson had guessed by looking at her that she planned on asking him something he didn't want to answer and, for that matter, probably didn't even want to think about.

"How're you holding up?" she'd said, drinking from the beer she'd just ordered as Chase returned, scowled at her and sat down in a different chair. "With the hearing. It must be really hard."

Wilson had blinked and quietly put down his own bottle. He thought for a moment and finally said, "I don't know." It was true, he'd realized, he didn't know, and he'd set to work then and there to decide whether he was holding up while House glared at Cameron and asked her why she didn't have her own business to mind and Chase picked pineapple off one pizza to drop it on his own slice.

That night, having decided that he wasn't holding up, not as well as he'd have liked anyway, was the night Wilson cried.


	10. IX

**A/N: **_I don't know what anybody will think of this one. I tried to keep Wilson more in character, but it's getting hard to decide what is in character considering what he's going through. I should probably end this while I'm still happy with it, but I sort of wanted to let House confront Julie, just because it would be fun… any opinions? (I sure hope some people are still reading this—it'd get boring talking to myself. Judging by the amount of reviews I'm getting, I'd say hardly anybody is. It's a bit depressing.) The ending bit also feels like it might be rushed._

_Oh, and before I forget I want to give credit to ivorynovelist, because she started a story sort-of kind-of like this (I can't remember the name, but you can find it on her profile), with the initial premise anyway (evil wife), which was quite good, and I found it intriguing but it wasn't updated again. So that was pretty much inspiration. Thanks. xD And maybe if anyone is reading this y'all might want to check that out._

**IX.**

**A**s two weeks from Thursday approached astonishingly quickly, House found himself thinking about it more and more, despite his efforts to the contrary. He was realizing, too, that he had changed. Not really, no, not severely, no, but enough that he noticed. It was slightly intoxicating to know that you were needed, and he was pretty sure that, for once, Wilson needed him. A month ago he'd never seen Wilson cry, not even when drunk out of his head, but now he'd been there. They had been sitting watching TV while Wilson talked; House found it unusual that Wilson, usually such a private person, actually wanted to talk so much about something which was obviously uncomfortable for him, but he did. House was listening a lot more than he let on (once Wilson began, hesitantly and almost dreamily, it was near impossible for him to stop himself) when between words there had come a quiet sob. It was hardly noticeable really but it had brought a friend, and after a few more House couldn't stand it and gave Wilson a handkerchief. He hadn't been surprised when Wilson didn't blow his nose, and it wasn't until he'd been sitting at his piano playing and sipping scotch in the dark that he understood the impact of the sobs themselves. That evening he'd played longer.

Listening to Wilson was not as hard as he'd have expected it to be before. The act really did not require much involvement; it made him feel good, he knew it made Wilson feel good and—for some reason—that knowledge made him feel better. He didn't analyze it too much; it worked for them. A few times the things he learned kept him awake at night, but he didn't sleep well anyway. He almost grew to like James Taylor—almost. And Wilson—Wilson, for all the blow-drying, nail-clipping, and neediness, three things House usually _hated_, was an okay roommate.

House was beginning to realize that he liked the company.

"Wilsie," he said, limping into the kitchen one morning two days before the hearing, "take the day off."

"What?" said Wilson, glancing up from slicing into a pancake and staring at him. "And you know my name's not Wilsie."

"Wil-sie," House said again, "take-the-day-off. You know, from _work_? That thing we do way too often?"

"The thing that pays the bills?" Wilson said, grinning.

"Live a little. You'll never get anyplace otherwise."

Wilson's grin faded. "Take the day off? I have a patient at ten."

"For what?"

"Er, an interview," Wilson said slowly, sensing that he was losing the argument and preparing himself to phone in. He swallowed, rather abruptly, a piece of breakfast.

"So don't go," House said, with a grin of his own which quickly became a leer. "Buddy boy, we've had this date from the beginning."

"Oh come on," said Wilson, laughing, "you've never seen A Streetcar Named Desire."

House limped over to the table and swiped Wilson's plate. "So? Doesn't mean I can't quote it."

Wilson sighed, passed House the maple syrup, and pulled out his cell phone. "Fine. You win. But _once_, okay? And only because I didn't want to go in anyway."

House, because his mouth was full, held up both hands; one with the pointer upright and one a closed fist. Wilson got the message—me one, you zero—laughed again, and set about explaining to a very irate doctor why he wasn't going to work.

They left for someplace—Wilson had no idea where—in the Corvette at nine. Wilson found out where they were going soon enough when they pulled into the McDonald's drive-through and House turned down the radio and stopped the car at the window. Wilson ordered only a coffee—he'd already eaten too many pancakes—and was pulling a dollar fifty out of his wallet when House paid.

"I owe you," he said gruffly. Wilson smiled, was silent and took the drink.

There was a showing of Click at ten-thirty which, coupled with popcorn, Milk Duds—House's favorite—cookie dough bites—Wilson's, also paid for by House—and a very annoying, lengthy running commentary was over at about one.

After that they had a drink at Wilson's favorite bar and stopped by Fry's, where House decided he deserved a new game and spent half an hour debating its merits and problems to an extremely bored teenage member of the staff who had more acne than brains and a large, oddly-colored stain down the front of his uniform. They left at four, with House proudly brandishing his video game (10 off, no surprise there) and Wilson swinging a plastic bag containing Michael Crichton's latest novel (there was a Barnes and Noble nearby—he'd paid for _that_ himself).

At five-thirty they reached House's again, Wilson having had to drive on the way home so the Vicodin had time to take effect, and Wilson pulled the Corvette up beside his own car in the driveway and cut the gas. Before he got out, he turned to House.

"Thanks," he said, simply.

"She _is_ a beaut, isn't she?" House said, patting his car, "and a real babe magnet, too." But he knew perfectly well what Wilson meant, and Wilson, for that matter, knew _he_ knew. Wilson grinned and climbed out of the Corvette and they went inside to order Chinese and pester the delivery boy when he arrived. There were, House thought, forty-three hours.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**T**he next day was Wednesday and Wilson spent its entirety, even while at work, putting a great deal of effort into not thinking about the following one. He stayed clear of Cameron, who meant only the best and so could not be resented but did not understand people who just didn't care to consider the situation at all; Chase passed him in the hallway and offered to buy him a drink after work on Friday, being remarkably sympathetic; and House sat at their table silently at lunch, stealing his Lays while he snuck blatantly obvious peeks at a new nurse who happened to be both particularly—er—well-endowed and completely oblivous.

He stopped by Cuddy's office a little while before he was ready to go home and discovered House in there already, gesturing wildly in annoyance about something; Cuddy spotted him waiting outside and called him in, most likely if only to get House to shut up.

"Hi, Lisa," he said, pausing in the doorway.

"Hi, James," said Cuddy, simultaneously smiling at him and glaring at House, who stood in the corner leaning heavily on his cane and leering at anyone who'd give him the chance.

At that, he stepped inside. He had stopped walking with crutches recently and instead acquired a slightly awkward limping stride which was slower but more comfortable.

"Am Iinterrupting something?"

"No," House said, stomping by him and storming out.

Wilson glanced curiously at Cuddy. "No," she said, sighing. "Did you need something, James?"

"Oh, no," he said, thinking privately that everyone_ else _was saying no at the moment and why shouldn't he join in, "I just wanted to let you know that I can't come in tomorrow. I have no appointments, so that won't be a problem."

"Right," Cuddy said, smiling sadly. "It's fine." She paused. "In fact, you don't necessarily have to come in Friday either."

"I will," Wilson said hastily. "I mean, I think I can make it." After the mess was over he knew he wanted to keep his mind off it as much as possible, and if coming in to work was the best way to do that—well, that was what he'd just have to do.

"Are you doing all right?"

"I'm—" he thought for a moment "—I'm okay. Thanks."

Wilson made it to the elevator and was riding down when one of his patients, a woman named Grace, stepped in above the ground floor.

"How are you?" he said. "Are you in any more pain?"

"Not so bad," Grace said. She smiled at him shyly and pressed the button for the bottom floor, which was already lit up. They made small talk for a few minutes; she walked out beside him, and they chatted about whatever they could think of to discuss. She went her own way in the parking lot and as he climbed into the driver's seat of his car he found his heart lighter and his lips mysteriously curved. It was not until he was halfway to House's again that he remembered he was unhappy.

Later that evening, his belly pleasantly full of pizza, Wilson lounged on the couch and tried to immerse himself in his novel. When House entered the room he had very nearly succeeded. House eyed him, plucked up a medical journal from the nearest table, and sat down as well; they remained in companionable silence for a little while as Wilson worked on putting various thoughts as far from his conscious mind as he could and House worked on figuring out exactly what was wrong with his latest patient—besides, of course, intrinsic idiocy.

As he leaned over to the coffee table to pick up his beer, Wilson realized his sleeves were rolled up and put his novel down to set about the business of fixing them. This got House's attention surprisingly quickly. He glared at Wilson over the top of his own book.

"I've _seen_ 'em," he said, unconsciously echoing his earlier remark.

For the first time in weeks, Wilson looked at the scars himself. There were three, one thicker, jagged line beginning at his left elbow and continuing for an inch and a half down the underside of his forearm, one thinner, longer and straight line from his right elbow, and one oddly shaped, as though it was an attempted tattoo, just behind his wristwatch. Without quite thinking about what he was doing, he traced the oddly-shaped one with a forefinger. It was almost over, he thought, almost the end. Five years, and in two weeks it was almost over—except for the scars, but House had already seen those.

He traced the healing wound once more, met House's eyes.

"Okay."

House nodded. "Okay." Wilson left his sleeves rolled to his elbows and drank his beer.

At eight that night the phone rang.

Wilson, who happened to be sitting closest, leaned over and picked up the cordless. "James Wilson," he said politely into the receiver. "May I help you?"

House, though he thought with disgust that he needed to re-teach Wilson the proper way to answer a phone, said nothing and continued watching The O.C.

"Really?" Wilson said. "But why?"

Pause.

"I don't believe it."

Wilson's remarks, House noticed, were growing more distraught by the moment.

"Does that mean it's off, then?"

Pause. "No," Wilson said quietly, with an amount of resolve which surprised even him. "No, I don't."

Pause. "Okay."

Pause. "Are you _sure_?" Wilson's voice held more than a little fear. It was the voice of a man who knew he shouldn't hope because it would only end in disappointment but who could not stop himself from hoping anyway and mourned the finish he felt would be inevitable.

"Okay." Pause. "Well, I can't thank you _enough_."

"Okay." Pause. "I really appreciate this."

"Goodbye."

Wilson held the phone cradled in his left hand for a minute, barely breathing; then he pressed the "Talk" button with an unsteady forefinger and leaned back into the couch cushions again. House, helplessly overwhelmed by curiosity, muted the television. The show was on TiVo anyway.

"I have news," Wilson said, after about five minutes of House's patented expectant stare. He wasn't sure how to feel.

"I gathered that," said House.

"It is, I think," Wilson said, "_good_ news. No, it's _great_ news." He glanced at House. "Are you ready for this?"

"In thirty seconds, will I be any more ready? Didn't think so. Spill."

Wilson's heart leapt into his throat and he found he couldn't bring himself to say it, put it into words for fear it might disappear. But he knew he had to get it out. "Julie," he began, which was never a good start to _any_ sentence, "has decided—it seems Julie has decided—"

House studied him as he might a lab rat and idly massaged his bad leg.

"Julie has decided," Wilson said in a rush, "to give me a divorce—" and he buried his head in his hands, torn with deciding whether to laugh or cry. "No trial," he whispered. "No hassle. We won't even have to—have to—" he drew a shaking breath "—see each other. A divorce," he repeated. "Never thought—never thought I'd be so happy to hear those words." He could not raise his head yet.

House got up and went into the kitchen. In a few minutes, Wilson heard his limping stride return. There was a clunk, as of aluminum on wood, and a light, completely unexpected pressure on his shoulder. He opened his eyes; two Cokes sat on the coffee table and House stood beside him, a hand on his arm.

"It is good news," House said. "It's great news."

Wilson kept his head down. "They didn't say why she changed her mind," he said. "I could have pressed charges, but I didn't. I didn't do it."

"It's not easy," said House quietly. "It's not easy, and I would've." He paused. "But I think you did the right thing."

Wilson looked up at House and saw, for the first time in too long, the man honestly smile. They reached for the sodas as one and toasted to better days, and Wilson thought of the long-ago fortune cookie and decided that maybe, just maybe, he might believe in fate.

Maybe.

That night Wilson slept on House's couch listening to Paper Moon and dreamed not of nothing at all, as he'd done two weeks ago.

That night, as the by-now-familiar melody washed over him, Wilson dreamed of safety. Of safety, Charlie, and the lean, hulking figure of the best friend he'd ever had.

And he slept like a baby.


	11. X

**A/N:**_I'm nervous about this chapter. It's rather long and I hope it's okay. I had real problems writing Julie—I can't empathize with her. I think the next chapter will be the last; I'm worried that everyone is becoming more and more OOC as I go along._

_And I'm sorry I update so often—it's just that it's summer and I really have nothing better to do anyway. ): I hope you will still review._

_Also, I'm not real big on cussing, but under the circumstances…_

_(Plus I passed my driving test—w00t)_

**X.**

**T**wo weeks later House was on his way home from work when he saw Julie.

He had just pulled his bike up to the stop light at an intersection; as he waited impatiently for the light to change again, he began a game. It was a particular game which he'd played since being a boy bored to tears on family vacations—finding people nearby who caught his fancy and using their behavior and clothing as clues to guess what their lives were like. He was fairly close to accurate often enough that he even surprised himself at times, and he enjoyed the game so much he still played it when he had the chance. This was, of course, generally at stop lights.

Across the street there was a middle-aged woman, whippet-thin, with blond hair. Her movements were quick and rapid but precise, as if she wanted to control her motion and only allowed herself to travel a certain distance with each step. House watched idly as she strode, heels clicking against the pavement like Prada castanets, to the door of the Second Street grocery; before she turned inside her gaze skimmed once around the surrounding area, as if to check and make sure it had not moved while she wasn't watching. It was when her eyes hesitated on him that House realized who she was; who she was and that she recognized him as well.

Then he was swerving dangerously through traffic and pulling into the parking lot.

House drew his bike up in the nearest handicapped space, removed his cane from the side, and swung his leg onto the ground. He left his helmet on the handlebars and headed toward the automatic doors; he made a point of ignoring the small blue-and-white sign, refusing to look at it though he knew it was there and felt its mockery tingling in the hair on the back of his neck. He had more important things to deal with.

Wilson was still living with him. It was taking awhile to get things sorted out with the divorce and House personally suspected that Wilson didn't want to return to his old place anyway, but planned on renting his own apartment somewhere else. They fell back into their usual pattern of joshing each other and cracking crude jokes and things returned to normal except that every now and then Wilson had had a nightmare. In the early hours of the morning one day House heard a high-pitched keening sound—it had been followed soon after by a series of choking, half-restrained sobs. The noise disturbed House, sending an unpleasant chill up his spine, and he had popped a Vicodin, dragged himself out of bed, and limped half-asleep to the living room. He'd found Wilson twisted in the blanket, writhing as if in pain, face and arms pale and covered in chilling sweat. House had looked at him for a moment; then he'd sat down in a chair and flipped on the television. There was nothing on at six in the morning but he had General Hospital on TiVo; halfway through the show he'd glanced up to find Wilson awake, still pale, shaking a bit but calmer. He'd poured them each a shot of whiskey, the color came back to Wilson's face and they went to work two hours later like nothing had happened.

(Cuddy called Wilson a good influence. If she'd known _how_ he was getting House in at eight she might have reconsidered.)

After a similar situation had occurred three nights later, with brandy and Blackadder, House began to realize that while Wilson had told him more than he'd ever _wanted_ to know by a long shot, the man still had told him nowhere near everything. He didn't push Wilson about it; that wasn't his job, his duty, and he didn't really want to hear about whatever it was anyway. Instead he woke Wilson with the television, plied him with alcohol, and kept his mouth shut. They didn't really talk any more, but he still played the piano.

The nightmares had begun to stop within a week. The first time House woke up at nine to the sound of his cell phone ringing rather than at six to a desperate cry for help from his living room he nearly felt the way a parent does when their kid uses the potty; he and Wilson never mentioned it, though—he'd never asked Wilson what he dreamed about, he didn't particularly care to know, and Wilson didn't volunteer.

When Wilson wasn't working or watching television in the evenings with House, he was reading a book, making dinner, sleeping, blow-drying his hair, doing something else reflecting an odd male passion for cleanliness, studying oncology journals, or—and this was the latest development—calling a _woman_. House had had no idea who this particular woman _was_ until he'd listened in on one of Wilson's conversations and heard the name "Grace." He hadn't _asked_ Wilson about her, of course, just waited to see what happened—nothing had, but Wilson used his cell phone for an hour and a half every evening talking to the mysterious chick about nothing in particular, and when he hung up he always seemed happier. Happy-Wilson meant Wilson-Who-Didn't-Wake-House-Up-At-Six-A.M. It also meant _House_ was happier. For some odd reason, he began to smile more when Wilson was and swear the pants off random strangers when Wilson was in a particularly bad mood or had related a disturbing tale recently. Swearing the pants off random strangers, of course, had always been one of his more pleasurable pasttimes anyway, but Wilson's depression made him that much more annoyed.

It was the first time he'd been so close to anybody since Stacy, and—to be honest—the whole thing scared the shit out of him.

The oddest thing about it of all, though, was that he wasn't trying to change it, wasn't attempting to kick Wilson out or forget about him. The oddest thing was that he still hung around.

He was beginning to realize that, all those times when he'd insistently asked Wilson why _he_ still stuck around and Wilson couldn't answer him satisfactorily, those times after his infarction when Wilson had knelt in House's own waste to dab his face with a cold cloth, hauled him to his bed, stuck his head in a cold shower when he'd drunk too much, and House had turned round the second he got a chance and flung a beer bottle at his face, when House screamed in pain at Wilson to get out and Wilson sat next to the door—all those times this was how Wilson had felt. How, perhaps, Wilson still felt.

Not that he was particularly masochistic, but that he had to stay. Needed to stay. Because, if for no other reason, nothing else would seem quite right.

But it had been two weeks and things were really getting back to normal.

And then he saw Julie at the grocery store.

House pushed his way past a young woman with a basket of yogurt and a tongue ring, past an older man with a beer belly larger than a small collie, past a tiny boy who nearly ran over his foot pushing a minature shopping cart of his own, and into the produce section. The familiar blond head was bobbing by the asparagus. Ten minutes and one unwanted artichoke later, House was trailing her into the meat.

In the meat department she bought a large soft-shell crab, four and a half pounds of ground chuck, and a pack of a dozen Foster Farms chicken legs. In dairy she bought a gallon of milk, two cartons of cottage cheese, a tub of butter and six small containers of fat-free strawberry yogurt. In deli she bought a pound of potato salad, half a pound of fresh-sliced roast beef, and some Provolone cheese. By the time she reached baked goods House was cursing his photographic memory and furiously trying to remember the words to Bohemian Rhapsody so he wouldn't count how many frosted vanilla cupcakes went into that cart of hers.

He finally got his chance in frozen food.

The aisle was empty, there were no stockboys within twenty-five feet—he'd checked—and she had her head inside the low-calorie dinners, checking a box of chicken marsala for carbohydrates, when he tapped her on the shoulder. He almost felt sorry for her when she jumped and cracked her head against the next shelf up—almost.

Not sorry enough though.

In his mind he saw a disturbingly cheesy montage; Wilson tied to a hospital bed demanding to know why he was called suicidal, Wilson asleep in the Corvette, Wilson grimacing when he heard the name Wilsie, Wilson drinking beer quietly in a pizza parlor, Wilson standing by the stove flipping pancakes, Wilson striding through the hallways at his shoulder letting him know in no uncertain terms exactly how stupid he was being, Wilson talking over the sounds of a General Hospital rerun which had been turned down anyway, Wilson munching popcorn and watching a movie, Wilson making fun of him, Wilson answering the phone too politely, Wilson sobering him up when he was too stoned to stand, Wilson's sobs waking him at six in the morning, Wilson pointedly ignoring him while he swiped chips, Wilson rolling up his sleeves, Wilson lying on his couch while he played the piano, Wilson smiling in the dark—Wilson.

As House looked into the blue eyes which were practically mirror images of his own, knowing he was staring down Wilson's demons, he realized he couldn't hurt the woman. Not because he didn't want to—oh, no, he _wanted_ to. Because Wilson, naïve idiot that he was, still loved her, and because he, God help him, loved Wilson.

Julie blinked. Somehow his fingers had found their way around her wrist, and through his too-tight grasp he felt the butterfly-wing fluttering of her pulse. She was obviously frightened.

House found that he didn't give a shit, but he released his grip anyway.

"Greg?" she said, unconsciously rubbing the marks left by his pressure. "What can I do for you?" A carton of strawberry yogurt dropped from her cart and rolled across the floor. It came to rest by a rack of small, fluffy children's toys, leaving behind on the tile a puddle of gloppy pink liquid which made House think of blood. Nobody moved. The store radio went off for a moment; the intercom came on and someone announced that a cleanup was required in Aisle Four.

"Long time no see, Ms. Scott," House growled. Scott had been her name before she'd married Wilson. He refused to call her Ms. Wilson.

"Yes, it has been, hasn't it?" Julie gave a nervous smile and took a step to the right. House mirrored her movement. "And what a surprise to run into you at the grocery, of all places."

"You're buying a lot of food. For more than one?"

"I'm having a bit of a party tonight," Julie said. "Some friends are coming to visit."

House had no idea why he was making inane conversation in the frozen-food section of a grocery store with a woman he hated when he should have been—he didn't really _know _what he should've been doing, but he knew it should've been something different.

"No new husband, I hope," he said.

"No."

"Aren't you going to ask how he _is_?" House snarled. "Five years. Do you _care_?"

Julie stared into his eyes and backed away. She seemed to be regaining her courage. "Do you, Greg?"

"That doesn't matter," he said, pressing forward again. "You nearly destroyed him. _Why_? Why would you do that? He didn't deserve it and you may be a cold-hearted, frozen bitch, but what you did is worse than kicking a puppy. Worse than kicking a thousand puppies." House's voice dropped, but the lower pitch served its purpose better than a higher one would have. "You bitch, why did you do it?"

"Need any help, ma'am?"

Both House and Julie glanced up at the noise and turned to look down at the end of the aisle; there stood a bag boy, red-apron-clad, trolley-wielding, and glaring viciously at House as though the man were the devil incarnate. His brown hair stood up in an unmerciful cowlick atop his head, his cheeks were covered in freckles, and all told he looked like there was nothing he'd have liked more than to bop House over the head with a large cast-iron frying pan.

"Oh, no, I'm fine," Julie said quickly, "thank you for asking." The bag boy, with no small amount of reluctance, retreated. Julie snapped her head back around to House with a movement so sharp he wondered she didn't get whiplash.

"We can't talk about this here," she hissed.

"No shit."

"Let me buy these things and we'll go to the parking lot." The tone of her voice was that of a question, not a statement, and she made no move toward her cart. She seemed to be waiting for him to respond.

House studied her face and nodded briefly, silently. Julie's heels clicked back across the aisle, chicken marsala forgotten; he tailed her to the checkout line, waited impatiently as she slid her Visa (wondered if it was Wilson's money she was using), let her struggle with the bags all the way to her car. Leaned against the bumper while she loaded the goods in the trunk and jerked it shut; then, with his cane, gestured for her to sit on a bench across the way. Her eyes flickered up to him—she was short, shorter than Wilson. She obeyed, folded her hands in her lap, said nothing. House wanted to tell her she was not a lady and so she couldn't sit like one. Instead he limped over and stood in front of her.

"Why did you do it?" he repeated. He was quieter, slightly drained of adrenaline. Waiting in line for a man whose face belonged on a Shar-Pei to find his checkbook had the habit of doing that to a guy.

Julie raised her gaze to his. "What?" she said.

"I don't want to play games with you. Cut the crap."

"He's living with you now, isn't he." Julie's eyes bored into his and House couldn't picture Wilson with her. He didn't answer; that wasn't her business.

"He wasn't a very good husband."

"Did it ever occur to you that you weren't a very good wife?"

"Do you want me to answer your question or not?" Julie's voice rose a bit. House sensed she was getting angry and knew that if she made it to her car he'd never get another chance as good.

"Answer it."

"He's not a true Jew," Julie said. "He's a workaholic who can't keep his pants zipped or his hands to himself. That stupid dog of his trashed the place—"

"Charlie," House muttered to himself, and then it hit him.

"Charlie. Where is he?"

"What makes you think he's any place other than home?" But Julie dropped her gaze. House knew where Charlie was, all right.

"Did you have to kill his dog too?"

"He wouldn't stay out of the garbage. Stunk up the furniture. Scratched at the doors till the early hours of the morning. What was I _supposed_ to do with him?" Julie said, annoyed.

House shook his head. "Forget it. Keep talking."

"He's an embarrassment. Has the manners of an oaf."

"So you threw plates at his head."

"No. I—I—" Julie got to her feet, her cheeks glowing, fists clenched. "I don't have to talk about this with you. With anybody. I have to get home. I have guests."

"The home might not be yours for long, you know. Divorce and all." House didn't feel threatened; even in heels, the crown of her head barely reached his chest. Compared to Wilson, he thought, she would have been a lot taller.

"I have to go."

"You never told me why. You're not going_ anywhere_."

Julie stepped forward. House stepped forward. "You really are a crazy bitch, you know that?"

She said nothing, was motionless. Trembled with restrained anger. House thought of Charlie and shook his head slowly. "You won't answer me." He studied her eyes, her face, one last time.

"You know why he cried in the night. You have the power to give him some closure—you owe him that. And you won't answer me." He shook his head again.

"But you _have_ told me something," House said a moment later. She still hadn't moved. "I think you answered me anyway."

He left Julie standing by the bench, strode to his bike and never looked back. It wasn't until he reached home that he began to regret not punching her.

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**W**ilson was stretched out on the couch napping in a dying ray of sunlight, an oncology text open on his stomach, when House opened the front door. Steve McQueen was rustling busily in his cage in the corner and didn't notice a thing.

"Some guard-rat you are," House said. He lifted the latch on the cage and lifted out his pet. Steve scrambled onto his shoulder and began nibbling his earlobe. House thought momentarily of Charlie, another test job in the experiment to determine whether dogs really went to heaven, and limped into the kitchen to hunt down something for dinner. There was a plastic container in the fridge with a Post-It stuck to the top; the note was in Wilson's terrible scrawl. It read "House—this is my lunch. DO NOT TOUCH IT IF YOU VALUE YOUR RAT."

House tore the note off and was about to dump it on the counter when he realized there was something written on the back.

"House—you never listen to signs, right? Anyway, the joke's on you this time. I made extra." Wilson had skipped down a space or two and written, in much larger letters, "HA."

The food was some kind of unusual spiced meat and noodles, but a third of the way through it House realized he'd lost his appetite. He popped two Vicodin, poured himself a shot of scotch, and put Steve into his small, specially-designed rat-ball. Steve disappeared in the direction of the living room, rolling at top McQueen-speed, and it wasn't more than two minutes before House heard a thud and Wilson—in that order.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Steve—House?"

House—intentionally—didn't say anything.

Wilson got up and came into the kitchen carrying the rat-ball in his hand; the first things he noticed were the Post-It on the counter and the half-empty dish on the table.

"I _knew_ you'd eat it, I _knew_ it! Didn't I tell you, Stevie-Weevie? Didn't I say that?"

"Talking to rats is, in most circles, considered the first sign of insanity."

Wilson smirked. "Well, we all knew _you_ should've been in an asylum _decades_ ago." Steve squeaked as if in affirmation.

House tossed the scotch to the back of his throat and swallowed.

"How's the patient?" Wilson asked, sitting across from House. He absentmindedly reached over with one hand to pull open the oven. "You put the dishes in there aga—"

"I saw Julie today," House said, and then mentally clocked himself with the nearest bat for being about as subtle as a tanker truck. Wilson's face went approximately four shades paler; he began rubbing his fingers lightly over the plastic of Steve's ball and occupied himself by looking anywhere other than at House. House poured another shot of scotch and slid it down the table to him. Wilson drank it without hesitation as soon as it came within reach; he had two more before he spoke.

"And?"

"At the grocery store. She was buying strawberry yogurt."

"Julie hates strawberry."

"She had guests."

There was silence for a minute. Steve began to fidget, so Wilson opened the hatch at the top of the ball and let him climb out. He ran up Wilson's arm to the back of his neck, where he sat down and began busily twitching his ears. Steve wouldn't sit on anybody else. Apparently he made Wilson think of pets too.

"How is—" he began.

"You don't want to know."

"I do." Wilson got to his feet. "Don't tell me what I want to know, House. Just—"

House sighed. "Have you ever seen the movie All Dogs Go To Heaven?"

"No," Wilson said hesitantly. It took him a moment. He looked pleadingly at House and House lowered his gaze.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"Why did you see her?" Wilson said angrily.

"What?"

"Why did you see her? Did you learn anything?" Wilson burst. "Do you get off on coming home and telling me my dog is dead? Are you happy now, House? Damn it, are you happy now?"

House glanced at the grain of the table and followed the lines of it with his eyes. The blow-up had to come eventually.

"I don't have anything else. You remember when I said to you that all I had was my job and our stupid, screwed-up friendship? Oh, you do? Damn you, House, I was exaggerating then. Exaggerating."

"I know," House said.

"You got me to where I'm not exaggerating, House. Not any more. I _don't_ have anything. Nothing." Wilson's voice caught and he pushed upright; Steve ran hastily back down his arm and onto the table again. "I won't put you out. You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you? Had to see her. Had to push. People are puzzles to you, aren't they?"

"Sometimes."

"I'm not a puzzle. I'm not a damn puzzle. I'm a human being, House. You keep pushing, I'll break. You don't give a shit about _what_ I say to you but you still want to _know_, you still want to know everything. And when I _won't_ tell you—well, I guess we _all_ know what you do then." Wilson looked at his feet; they were bare, and he wiggled a toe philosophically. "I hope she answered your questions. I hope she did. I hope she told you all the shit I wouldn't. And I hope—I hope, House, it keeps you awake at night, you bastard."

Thirty seconds later House heard him in the living room, grabbing the few things he'd bought while staying over—slacks, shirts, novels, a—House winced, remembering—rubber dog bone—pulling on his shoes, picking up his keys. The door slammed and he was gone. When House returned to the scene in ten minutes, it was disturbingly empty, as if its second occupant had never been. The blanket was even folded over the back of the couch. He sat down at the piano, bringing the scotch with him, touched his hands to the keys, and began to play. He was three-fourths through a song before he realized he was playing Paper Moon.


	12. XI

**A/N: **Yep, there really is such a thing as a rat-ball. It's actually pretty cool. It's a fair-sized plastic—well, ball—with a little door that has a snap and you unsnap the door and put a rat or hamster or small animal inside, and then you just snap the door shut and put down the ball and the rat can go rolling itself all round the house. It's a bad idea if you are on the second floor though.

There is one more chapter after this. I hope everyone has enjoyed the—brief—ride.

Thank you very, very, very much for the reviews. 

**XI.**

_**S**teve walks warily down the street_

_The brim pulled way down low_

_Ain't no sound but the sound of his feet_

_Machine guns ready to go_

_Are you ready?_

_Hey, are you ready for this?_

_Are you hanging on the edge of your seat?_

_Out of the doorway the bullets rip_

_To the sound of the beat, yeah_

_Another one bites the dust_

_Another one bites the dust_

_And another one gone, and another one gone_

_Another one bites the dust_

_Hey, we're gonna get you too_

_Another one bites the dust_

_-Queen_

**W**ilson woke up the next morning with a rat on his face.

He would not have found this quite so unusual had he been in House's apartment, but as things happened he was attempting to sleep on the too-small, too-hard couch in his office with no blanket, no pillow, and no breakfast, and he definitely hadn't expected to have a rat on his face at—he checked his watch—seven-thirty in the morning. Last time he'd checked, there were no rats in the oncology department.

Wilson reached up with one hand, dislodged the furry culprit's claws from his nose, and acknowledged that it was Steve. That was good. He didn't particularly want a rabies shot. It was much nicer to have a _friendly_ rat on your face.

Steve.

House.

He let his head hit the arm of the couch again—bump bump stabilize—closed his eyes.

He'd been living with House for about three weeks when he'd had his first nightmare. It had been so _real_; it was like going back in time and reliving, over and over, the memories which he'd worked so hard to bury. But then he was woken by the sounds of a television he recognized—General Hospital—and when he'd fought his way back to reality, he'd seen House sitting there watching the show. It made him feel surprisingly _safe_. There really was something to the idea of carrying a big stick.

He'd never mentioned anything he dreamed of to House. Though he was able to tell the man a lot of things he hadn't thought he'd be able to tell _anybody_, some things would remain his secret forever.

To Wilson's credit, he'd never imagined House might go behind his back.

House and Julie had not been friends when he was married and didn't become friends afterward—House had attended two dinner parties, caused both to end catastrophically, and, in fact, was banned from the property. As a result of that they'd barely spoken; Wilson knew perfectly well House hated her guts. And after the phone call from the lawyers, Wilson found himself torn. Part of him still loved Julie and wanted to see her again, to find out how she was doing, and the rest of him wanted to slit the first part's throat and was terrified of ever so much as walking within five miles of Julie. He knew she didn't want to talk to him, and there he was torn as well—he couldn't decide whether she didn't want to talk to him because he didn't deserve her attention or because she'd just given up on him. There was also the possibility that she _did_, in fact, want to talk to him but was waiting for him to make the first move.

Wilson was afraid of seeing Julie again, wanted to see her again; was relieved she wasn't contacting him, was ashamed he'd been such a rotten husband that she didn't _want_ to contact him; knew he didn't deserve her behavior, had a niggling feeling that wasn't quite true and maybe he did anyway. And through all his confusion one question had resounded in the depths of his mind—why?

He was not certain really of anything else, had no clue of her motives, was even growing less certain of how he felt about himself, but he knew one thing—he wanted, wanted to hear from her lips the reason why she hated him.

Wilson had been distracted and he forgot to be suspicious. He forgot what a bastard House could really be when he sat down and gave it the good college try, and he forgot that House saw a Rubik's Cube where everyone else saw a man. Again, his common sense told him House would not betray him, had a greater sense of honor, was a better friend than that, but his emotions didn't believe it. And when House came home, told him so bluntly—as if it were an everyday thing—that he'd seen Julie at the grocery (House _never_ went to the grocery—how did he wind up there?), told him in so many words that Charlie was dead, something had come over him. He'd lost control; he'd exploded. Grabbed his stuff, stormed out, got drunk in a terrible bar, and wound up on the couch in his office at three in the morning, dead to the world.

He'd had a nightmare by himself, the first in two weeks, and no one was there with soaps and silent brandy when he woke cold, sweating, afraid.

And there he was, drained, slightly hung over, and with a rat on his face.

Wilson cradled Steve in his left hand and got to his feet. The blood rushed to his head as he stood, but he ignored it. Steve squeaked. Wilson lifted Steve to his shoulder and moved slowly, gingerly across the room. There was a cage by the door. Wilson bent down and picked it up. It was Steve's. A small piece of paper had been pinned to the bars; he undid the safety pin and examined the slip. The note was written in House's handwriting. It was unsigned.

"You're a dog person, but Steve seems to like you. I'm sure you'll survive."

A few lines had been skipped, and then—

"He hates walnuts. After dinner he gets a small—_small_—piece of Swiss. And Wilson, if you give him alcohol I swear I will hunt you down and kill you."

One more line—

"Take care of McQueen. He's good company and a real ladies' rat."

"My God," said Wilson reverently (if House had been there he would have said "You finally got it right"), once things had properly sunk in. He shrugged on his lab coat, dashed a comb through his hair, and made for the elevator as fast as he could considering that he had a cast on his ankle and a sleeping rat on his neck.

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**H**ouse was twirling his cane. Every now and then he opened one eye and glanced up at it, spinning through the air, a blur of smooth silver against the sterilized ceiling of his office. If he squinted he could not make out the cane itself at all any more, only an oval that somehow mysteriously glowed. He thought he would make a nice kitchen fan and laughed mirthlessly to himself. The hallways and the Diagnostic rooms were silent. The white-board was blank; his markers were—thanks to Cameron—_color-coded_; his team wouldn't be in for fifteen minutes. It was too early to be _anywhere_ and he was at _work_. At least he had his iPod, and said machine was currently blasting Queen.

House concentrated on separating the sound of each individual instrument from the beat created by the collective.

Then his own private version of meditation was utterly ruined, because the song finished and changed to a terrible ballad by Mariah Carey.

Wilson had been tampering with his playlists again.

House scrolled to the next song. This was one Wilson actually recommended. He kept scrolling. There was a knock on the door—sounded more frenzied than usual. He pretended not to hear. The knocking kept up. He'd closed the blinds and locked all the doors to his office.

Five minutes later the knocking stopped. House heard limping footsteps retreat down the hallway outside. He scrolled until he found a song by The Who, closed his eyes, and lost himself.

House sat with the Coma Guy at lunch, using the man's left hand to hold his bag of Doritos, his chin for his Reuben, his belly as a perfect soda can holder. He watched General Hospital sprawled in a guest chair with his feet propped on the edge of the bed and nobody found him. Cuddy forced him to do a few clinic hours in between consults and his patient's MRI; he told a fat nun she was pregnant, a man with kidney stones that he had prostrate cancer, and was well on his way to telling a worried young mother with a colicky baby that her son had smallpox when Cuddy caught on and forced him to _stop_ doing clinic hours instead. He left at four-thirty, didn't get home until five. His apartment was too empty without Steve or Wilson; he ordered Chinese and cracked open his fortune cookie by himself.

THINGS ARE LOOKING UP.

4533436357456434265474356

He threw the paper into the fireplace. There was no fire but he thought there might be one eventually.

He lay on the couch, researched his case for a few hours. When he had an idea, he poured some scotch and punched buttons until he found a show on television to watch. He quit playing the piano at midnight. Then he popped two Vicodin, went to bed, and stared sleeplessly at the ceiling.

After a month and a half, he no longer liked the sensation of making music for himself.

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**H**ouse got to work the next morning at nine-fifteen. His team was already by the white-board; Foreman—_Foreman_—was touching his markers. He didn't realize Wilson was leaning against the wall in the corner until he was halfway through railing on the black boy for being where he didn't belong—they didn't call it a _white­_-board for nothing—and noticed that Cameron was grinning more than usual.

When he looked at Wilson, Wilson merely stared at him.

House hid his surprise by sending Cameron to take patient history, Foreman to run an MRI, and Chase to—well, as he put it, to wherever blond-haired British boys liked to go at nine-thirty in the morning. Then he went into his office, locked the door, and found his iPod. Ten minutes later, Wilson left. He still hadn't said a word.

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**T**hat evening Wilson was sitting on the couch eating chow mein clumsily with chopsticks when House got home.

Steve was in his cage on the coffee table.


	13. XII

**A/N:**Here is the last chapter. Sorry for making y'all wait a little (I was fishing for reviews again—yay!). I hope I've done the story credit, and I hope everyone enjoyed it. I almost feel bad ending it, but I think I've given everyone enough closure. And it's probably time I tried writing a piece of my own again; I've written fanfiction so long I'm starting to think I might be incapable of writing anything else. Not that that would be a _bad_ thing, though. XD

Anyway—enjoy.

**XII.**

_**A**nother winter day_

_Has come and gone away_

_In even Paris and Rome_

_And I wanna go home_

_May be surrounded by_

_A million people, I_

_Still feel all alone_

_Just let me go home_

_Oh, I miss you, you know_

_Let me go home_

_I've had my fun_

_But, baby, I'm done_

_I wanna come home_

_--Michael Bublé_

**H**e'd knocked on House's office for ten minutes; there had been no answer and he'd given up.

House hadn't appeared in the cafeteria at lunch. For a minute he'd wished someone would steal his food and leave him with the bill.

He hadn't gone to House's that evening. His fear returned with a rush. He'd driven to the apartment, limped uncomfortably up to the doorway, and stood with his finger on the bell, unable to apply pressure. He was a certified award-winning oncologist and he could not bring himself to ring a doorbell. He'd approached, lost his nerve, backed away, approached, finally made for his car and drove off. He wasn't sure what he was afraid of, but he was afraid anyway.

He'd waited in the diagnostics room the next morning—hadn't been able to say anything then either.

Finally, when he got home after work, he decided that he'd had enough; enough of tiptoeing around, trying to figure out a way to contact House safely, with minimal nervousness. Wilson plucked his spare key off his dresser, dropped Steve from the rat-ball into the cage, slid on his tennis shoes, and drove, once more, to House's apartment. He was sitting on the couch with his feet up eating Chinese and watching Steve sleep when House turned his key in the lock at six and came in, scowling, smelling of alcohol.

House glanced at Wilson, ignored him, sat silently on the couch and flipped on the television.

After ten minutes of being half-heartedly studied, glared at, and surveyed by a very annoyed, more-in-need-of-a-shave-than-usual House, Wilson took Steve out of his cage, dumped him on the couch. Steve scurried over to House and climbed up his arm to the back of his neck. Wilson grabbed the remote, aimed it in the general direction of the set, and pressed mute. House's eyes could have lit something on fire.

"Steve is yours," Wilson said, ignoring House's stubborn refusal to speak. "I can't keep him, and I won't keep him. You and that rat are like—like bosom buddies. It may be unhealthy, but I can't keep him."

House lifted Steve from his shoulder and stroked the rat's ears lovingly.

"Will you take him back?"

"Why did _you_ come back?"

Wilson looked at his shoes. "I never said I wouldn't."

No one spoke for a few minutes. Something scratched at the front door. There was more silence, and then a bark. The bark was followed by a second and a third—each one was louder than the previous. Steve's beady eyes darted warily in the direction of the sound. House glanced at Wilson and raised one eyebrow.

"You see, uh," said Wilson, "there is, uh, sort of, kind of, maybe a little reason _why_ I can't keep him. Besides the whole your-disturbing-relationship thing."

"Would this reason happen to have, oh, I don't know, four legs and a tail?"

Wilson stood up and opened the door. No fewer than thirty seconds later House's face was being furiously licked by a large fluffy brown mongrel and Steve was cowering for his life behind his own cage.

"House," Wilson said hesitantly, "I'd like you to meet Greg."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"**O**h, for heaven's sake, you named a _dog_ after me? What are we, _married_?"

"Now, now, Greggy," Wilson crooned, hefting the dog in question into his arms and stroking its head, "he really does like you—your uncle Housey-Wousey just has something we grownups like to call _commitment issues_." Greggy seemed unfazed and began slobbering thoughtfully on Wilson's left ear. "Ooh, Greg, that's the spot, that's the spot. A little to the left—oh, _yeah_."

"Can we sound a little less dirty when we talk to the dog?" House said, snickering. "You'll tarnish my rep."

Greggy leapt, with a groan, from Wilson to the floor and began snuffling under the coffee table. Upon finding a spilled chunk of meat, he settled down, crossed his paws and proceeded to make small half-growling happy sounds. Steve poked his nose cautiously around the corner of his cage, wiggling his whiskers; House grabbed him and put him inside. "Where'd you get the dog?"

"Same place I got Charlie," Wilson said, sitting on the couch again, "the city animal shelter."

"Okay," House said, "try this—for a man sleeping in his office, where do you plan on _keeping_ the dog?"

Wilson grinned. "Um."

"You want to keep _that_—" House gestured at his namesake "—in my _apartment_?"

"Can I?"

"Look," said House, "I didn't expect you back in the first place, and things were normal around here again finally, and you show up with a _dog_. It's named after me, which is ­_nice_ and all, I guess, disturbing really, but—"

Wilson studied the top of Greg's head silently for a few minutes, and when he glanced warily back up, House saw that the shadows in his gaze of a month before had returned.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said. "Can I talk to you?"

It was House's turn to stare at the dog. He rolled his eyes. "You want a drink?"

"Yeah."

Ten minutes and two shots of Jack Daniels later, House and Wilson were sitting on the couch while Greg scampered in circles around the coffee table and Steve, in his cage, nibbled busily on a pecan he held between his front paws.

"So," House said finally. "What's up with this Grace?"

Wilson promptly shattered his tumbler. "_What_?"

House sighed. "You idiot, that was my favorite shot glass. _Grace_. The one you're always calling up and grinning about."

"Hold on." Wilson retreated to the kitchen and returned, arms akimbo and smirking. "A doctor, a man who should know better than practically anybody the value of cleanliness, and you don't own a _dustpan_?"

"I don't own a dustpan," House said, "and if I did it wouldn't be in the kitchen. Forget the glass. It's not gonna go anywhere. Neither are you."

Wilson, feeling rather like a small, unruly child, sat down and focused with an extreme amount of concentration on the tip of Greg's twitching tail.

"Grace."

"She is," Wilson said, "uh, a patient. Of mine."

"Do you talk to _all_ your patients so much, Patch Adams?"

"Um. No."

House grinned.

"_Anyway_," Wilson said. "About the other day."

Greg lifted his head and woofed softly. House pursed his lips and whistled. A moment later Greg was draped across House's lap and House's fingers had found their way to his ears. Wilson's jaw dropped. House popped a Vicodin.

"Is there a point to this discussion," he said, rolling the pill around on his tongue, "or are you just going to keep stuttering and yacking till we all die of boredom?"

"It's just—well—Julie—"

"Saw her on the way home, corner of Market and Fourth, walking into the store. So I followed her, okay? Man, could you have picked a _colder_ bitch?"

Wilson looked at his shoes. "Why?"

House sighed. By now Greg's eyes were closing in bliss and he was beginning to snore.

"I had one side left."

"Huh?"

"On the cube. I had one side left."

Wilson reached over and touched Greg's nose. "Which color?"

"Red."

"I hate red."

"I'm sorry."

"_Huh_?" Wilson dropped the shard of broken crystal he'd been idly fingering. In years of friendship, not once had he heard those words so solemnly from House. Greg thumped his tail once, twice; House glared.

"Don't make me repeat it or I swear I'll shoot you and mount your head on the wall of a golf club. You're pretty enough; with antlers I could pass you off as a five-point buck."

"No. Wait. I just don't get it. Let me get this straight. You're sorry that I hate the color red?"

House rolled his eyes. "You're more idiotic than I give you credit for."

"Woof," said Greg.

"What? You want some whiskey?"

"House. Dogs don't drink alcohol."

"Woof."

"Hear that? He wants some."

"House. Why?"

There was silence. House rubbed Greg's ears once more and met Wilson's eyes.

"She didn't answer me."

Wilson blinked confusedly. "What did you ask her?"

"I asked her why."

"Woof."

"Damn it!"

"What now?" Wilson's eyes were on the ground, the keys of the piano, the ceiling, the abandoned TV Guide resting on the coffee table, anywhere but House.

"Haven't you ever heard of _walking_ your dog?" House grabbed his cane and got to his feet. There was a rather large wet spot on his jeans. Greg jumped to the ground, where he began running in circles and barking excitedly. Wilson snatched the leash—it had been Charlie's—from the table and snapped it onto Greg's collar; Steve squeaked in protest and House irritably poured another shot of whiskey, whereupon he proceeded to dump it on Wilson's head.

"That's for stinking up a perfectly good pair of jeans."

"Well, _that_ was for making me wet the bed!"

"No, you filed through my _cane_ for _that_."

"And you stuck twenty copies of Playboy in my briefcase before a board meeting for _that_!"

"Woof," said Greg, dancing busily by the door.

"House. I have _whiskey_. On my _head_."

"So? Chicks dig that."

"Woof!"

"Squeak," said Steve, thinking he'd join in.

Wilson wrapped the end of Greg's leash around his hand and went outside. House examined the now-empty bottle of Jack Daniels, tossed it into the trash, grabbed the remote and began flipping through his TiVo. By the time Wilson came back House had worked his way through half the order of won ton and was busy amusing himself by throwing grains of rice to Steve. Greg curled up near the cold fireplace and went to sleep. Wilson, whose hair was plastered to his head and who still stank of liquor, sighed, sat down, rested his feet on the coffee table and opened his mouth.

"Why what?"

"You're better when you don't say anything."

"House."

The television went silent again.

"Why she wanted to hurt you, okay? Damn it, James, even when I pour warm whiskey on your head you're Mr. Rogers. I half expect you to burst into song while you do the dishes. Sure, you cheat, you drink, you swear, and you are one major pain in the ass, but nobody wants to break you for it. She wanted to break you."

"And a puzzle piece was missing," Wilson said to himself.

"No. Well, _yeah_, but I wanted to know—" House sighed and glared at the quiet television set "—for you, too. Wilson, you had night terrors. You weren't exactly the picture of sanity. Not like you ever _are_, of course, Mr. I-Dry-My-Hair-At-Six-AM-And-Clip-My-Nails-For-Eight-Hours—"

Greg rolled over in his sleep and twitched an ear.

"I'm sorry."

House sighed. "I'm not gonna ask what for—"

Wilson shrugged. "I blew up. It was wrong. You're not a bastard."

"No," House said, "I _am_ a bastard, and you know it. But, you idiot, you like me anyway. And get this."

"Yeah?" Wilson glanced at him quickly.

"That's your funeral—and this is mine." House paused. "You're a pretty-boy adulterer who doesn't know what's good for him—but, call me an idiot, I like you anyway. And I need a drink." Greg waved his paws in the air. House returned in a few minutes with two shots of scotch.

"Thanks," Wilson said, after he'd had a swallow.

"I told you you're a pretty-boy adulterer."

"No, you told me I'm a _stupid_ pretty-boy adulterer. And you said you like me anyway."

"So maybe I don't know what's good for me either."

"There's an apartment closer to PPTH I'm gonna check out tomorrow."

"Good."

"Till then," Wilson said quietly, "can I stay here?"

House turned his head. "Have I taught you _anything_, padawan?"

"No, not really."

House laughed. "Number one on the list of things never to do is ask a question when you already know the answer."

Wilson grinned, and House found that he was grinning too.

"They're fading," House said a few minutes later, with an abrupt nod.

"Huh?" said Wilson, glancing briefly around.

"Those scars you were being such a girl about. They're fading."

Wilson looked at them himself. "I know."

"Scars give a man character."

"Sure do."

"And—dude?"

"Yeah?" Wilson looked at House again.

"That whiskey on your head? _Total_ babe magnet."

"Maybe Grace'll like it," Wilson said, winking.

House whistled and the newly-awakened Greg jumped into his lap.

"If you're ready," House said, "maybe she will."

Wilson rested his head against the couch and scratched Greg's ears. "Thanks, House."

"I swear, you thank me again and I'll—"

"Shoot me and mount my face on the wall of a golf club."

"Woof," said Greg.

"Squeak," said the sleepy-eyed Steve.

And that night, while House played the piano and sang old Irish drinking songs too loudly with Wilson, they realized Julie didn't matter, Stacy didn't matter, Cuddy didn't matter, nobody mattered. Because, whether or not the other one admitted it, whether or not the other one wanted to even _think_ about admitting it, they'd be there.

Because scars will fade, but friendships don't have to.

Because House could tolerate dog drool and Wilson knew he'd always have a place to stay with no lobster in sight.

Because music sounds better when you're not the only one listening to it.

And because House was a full-fledged, grade-A bastard, but Wilson loved him anyway.

**A/N:**Ending message: Thank you very much to the people who reviewed, especially since several of you are writers whom I greatly admire—your comments meant that much more. I really appreciate it. XD

As for those who inquired regarding the unusual subject matter, I have to admit the piece partially sprang from a desire to make _myself_ feel better. It worked.

I have some other, older pieces I'll post in a bit. Till then—I'm out.


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